


A Prince, his Thief and an Eagle

by keire_ke, Rohnoc



Series: A Prince, his Thief and an Eagle [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohnoc/pseuds/Rohnoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles goes about his everyday business of scrounging for food in the markets of the Downward, until he incautiously saves a stranger from a potentially deadly confrontation with a tavern owner, which puts him on a collision course with royal marriages, deadly plots and some very nosy eagles.</p><p>Loosely based on the Disney version of Aladdin. The "underage" tag, while technically accurate, implies more gravity than the actual situations possess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. upwards and downwards

**Author's Note:**

> This work was done at the prompt of the delightful Rohnoc, who supplied the images, and didn't bust my chops for abandoning story #1 in favour of this. I had enormous fun with the details of this piece, and I hope to return to this universe sometime. :D
> 
> Image masterpost over on [tumblr](http://rohnoc.tumblr.com/post/60973173057/x-men-reverse-bang-2-art-post-for-a-prince-his)

There was only so much one could steal from people who had next to nothing to begin or end with, which was one of the many reasons Charles was so thin these days. Plus, as big as the city of Genosha was (and it was big – Charles had travelled not at all in his life, but one hardly needed to travel, when the desert he knew surrounded the city was only a distant ring of golden light) his marketplace was a cosy corner of it, and well, his face was not hard to remember. It was only a touch peculiar, Charles often thought, how many close escapes he was forced into, because the few mirrors he saw invariably showed a pale, dark-haired boy, with a full face and blue eyes, nothing that was uncommon on the streets of Genosha. There was nothing that should draw attention, except maybe for the fact that he hasn't really changed in the past ten years, barring a few feet of height, but whose memory stretched that far? Yet time and again he had to resort to the faintest rifts of magic coursing through him, to distract and mislead his pursuers. 

Such was the case now. Charles ran, pursued by many angry voices, sending the faintest gust of wind to topple an empty cart into their path. He narrowly managed to get into the crowded tram, whose wheels had just begun to turn. He kept his head down and let it carry him to the next stop, where he jumped off and ran again, latching onto the nearest ladder and disappearing into the mazes of the Upward. Fat chance anyone would bother to pursue him there. He climbed the first ladder, ran across the narrow bridge which lead to the second ladder, then third, and finally to a long, narrow plank, at whose end there was a rope ladder. The place was virtually inaccessible for the ground-dwellers, and if one kept their balance one could circle the city a dozen times without crossing the same plank twice, to say nothing of touching the ground. 

Here, in the Upward, was a whole another world, growing from the bowels of the city and yet separate, branching into hundreds, if not thousands little enclaves, where people lived like birds; perching high at night and diving for crumbs on the ground during the day. Here was a market where no one scoffed at his presence, where the attention was welcome and friendly; here was a market he never stole from.

"Hey," he whispered when Raven came to meet him nuzzling into his palm. "Hey darling." Ten years she's been with him, shadowing his every move, and still the sight of her sleek form took his breath away. The people below kept cats to ward against vermin, or even as pets, but Raven was something else: she wouldn’t bear to be a pet. Raven was one of the Upward creatures, a cat bred in the high settlements, who hardly bothered to touch the ground. Why bother, when there were so many fat pigeons to make do? "I have a treat for you."

Her shining eyes followed his every move as he opened his backpack and peeled the crumpled paper inside to reveal a fluffy, sugar-frosted confection. Raven loved cakes. It was an odd thing for a cat of the Upward to love, but there it was: whenever Charles managed to steal something with frosting, he rarely got to enjoy it himself.

He moved into the market, clutching the cakes close to his chest and out of Raven's claws.

"Hi, Miss Moira," he said, as Raven clambered up his tunic to settle on his shoulder, nosing at his ear. "Do you want to buy some cakes?"

Miss Moira waved him inside quickly, spreading a sheet on her work table. Charles carefully placed his catch on the uneven surface, holding Raven back with one hand. These were quality cakes with real sugar frosting, only a day old. There were only two bakers in the market that made those, and fortunately for Charles they were always out to outdo each other in both volume and quality of their goods, which meant that they always made slightly more than they could sell, and thus the day-old cakes would often be hidden from the customers, fluffing up the amount without being in danger of being sold.

Sometimes, Charles got to them before most of the flies. 

"I can give you a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese for those," Moira said, after a cursory inspection.

"Deal." He did alright; pigeons were numerous and easy to catch, and quite filling, too, but when Moira placed a fresh loaf of bread before him, still warm, he thought he might cry. "It smells amazing!"

"I got it today. I figured you'd appreciate it."

There were so many reasons Charles dealt with Moira, even though some other vendors might have gotten him a better price. "Thank you so much," he said, carefully wrapped up the loaf and stowed it in his backpack.

"Have a good day!" she called.

Charles climbed. From the Upward market, which hardly even deserved the name, he had at least three ladders to get to the Rain, where the rainwater flew together from hundreds of pipes to converge in pools. Rainwater was what kept Upward going as well as it had; Genosha was reasonably irrigated, but free-flowing water within the home was a luxury, and luxuries paid. Charles paused there to wash his face in the open pool, before climbing on, through the Forest and on to the Library, where he and kids like him lived.

The Library was at the very pinnacle of the Upward, poorly protected from the elements, and high enough to bear the brunt of them. Charles took a deep breath and stepped off the ladder, onto a narrow board, the first of seven such boards hanging between his and Raven's home and the Downward. It was a harrowing experience, even for him, to step onto a narrow piece of timber, five or so yards long, and feel it bend under his weight. Fortunately, this had been his daily bread for as long as he could remember, so Charles rushed across without a second thought, then again and again, until he could dive into his hammock in the corner he himself surrounded with boards, as protection from the wind. This was home, his little corner of the Upward, filled with dust and wind, and what little he owned.

There was a spatter of blood in the corner below the hammock, an unmistakeable sign that Raven had feasted on a pigeon lately, and by the satisfied-yet-guilty look on her face Charles concluded she left nothing for him. 

"Thanks a lot," he grumbled, unwrapping the bread and taking a deep breath. It smelled divine. This would last him a few days, and if he managed to catch a pigeon he could boil soup and he would eat like a prince. But bread only lasted so long, and with a heavy sigh he halved it and hefted the side with the even, brown crust. 

"What do you think?" he asked Raven, wrapping his half of the bread again and hiding it under his blanket. "Shall we hunt?"

She stretched and yawned, baring her small, sharp teeth. Charles slid out of the hammock mid-swing, landing on the unsteady planks, and picked up his snares. The Forest had been particularly rich in crickets this year, so all the pigeons who nestled in the Upward were plump and slow, so that the snares were a precaution, rather than a necessity. Still, there was nothing quite so inspiring like a loaf of fresh bread and the promise of pigeon stew on the horizon, so Charles, armed with a woven net of twine and a deadly predator, set out to hunt.

Along the way he slipped half the loaf into the hammock of one of the Summers brothers, and immediately ducked below, sliding down a pipe into the depths of the Forest, which was home to crickets, flies and pigeons, and a pantry to all the Upward.

*****

Charles was uncommonly adept at magic, he had realised at one point in his life, and part of the reason might have been that he would get himself tangled in every speck of trouble which would topple his way. Take this for an example: when a child of the Upward hears a commotion and angry voices demanding payment, the child turns and carelessly ambles into the other directions; they do not inch forth to investigate.

There was a boy there, about Charles' age, staring up at the bulky owner of the tavern who had a propensity for knives and an uncanny ability to disguise them on his person. 

"Steal from me, will you?" the man growled, brandishing one of the thin knives he held particularly dear in the air, over the boy's head. 

Charles, although he was often criticised for thinking hardly at all before getting involved, had some preservation instinct. There was something in the rigid line of the other boy's spine however, something that was in equal parts courage and fright, something which stirred the magic in the air, that Charles took a step forward and sent a gust of wind to blow a handful of dust into the tavern-owner's face. His fingers slipped into the other boy's hand quite naturally, and they were running, weaving their way between old trashcans and new garbage. 

The Upward was never far; although there were sprawling portions of the Downward which were under the open sky and no the towering spires of the Upward, most of it had rooftops, which in turn were inaccessible to the people of the Downward, unaccustomed to flying across planks not meant to take the weight of a human being.

Charles dragged the stranger up a flight of stairs, across three buildings and up a winding, spiral ladder, before pausing to breathe.

"Goodness," he said. "You mustn't take from Logan, he has quite the temper. He is very generous, but you must never steal from him."

"He was brandishing knives at me!"

"Which is why you must never steal from him," Charles pointed out, a touch irritated, as though there was anything in his previous statement which escaped reason. "My name is Charles, what's yours?"

"I thought I could handle it," the boy said defensively, before giving Charles a wary look. "I was going to handle it. I just didn't want to hurt him. I'm Erik."

"Not Logan you couldn't." Charles smiled, briefly, before a cacophony of noises from downstairs sobered him up. "We must go, now."

They ran across the roofs hand-in-hand, slipping beneath the laundry lines and smoking chimneys, until the looming walls of the Upward extended their welcoming ladders.

"Climb!" Charles hissed, unceremoniously poking at Erik's backside. "And do it quickly."

Fortunately for them both Erik might be absolutely hopeless at theft or keeping himself alive Downwards, but he was decent at climbing, so in no time he and Charles were huddled close to the radiator which heated this section of the market, laughing and trying to catch their breaths.

"Oh, my friend," Charles managed, checking whether all his scarce belongings were on him, because one never knew; this could have been a ploy. "You wouldn't last a day down there."

"I could learn," Erik said stubbornly, crossing his arms. He was a handsome lad, Charles noticed. Tall, taller than Charles, and just as slim, although something about his figure suggested his was a natural slimness and not, as it was in Charles' case, a state forced by plenty of exercise and not enough food. "I live down there, for crying out loud."

"Really? Why were you stealing then?" People of the Downward rarely stole; why steal, after all, when you have food growing in the dirt?

"I wasn't stealing! It was just a misunderstanding."

"You took that food, and obviously you have no money to pay for it. I'm pretty sure that constitutes stealing."

"I was hungry." Erik frowned, in a way that folded up his face into a mask of someone far older. Charles found he would like to see him older, that he would like to see him when the age of the frown would match the age of his otherwise youthful body. "I didn't realise you need to pay right away. I was going to send the money, of course, I'm not a thief."

It was something of a puzzler, Charles thought privately, letting the latter part slide, because how could someone not realise it worked that way? It had been a tavern that Erik ordered the food, how could it have ended differently? Then he thought back to his impromptu rescue, to the feeling of holding Erik's hand, even the tight weave of the robe he wore and really, the answer suddenly became obvious.

"You're not just from the Downward, are you," he said. "You're from the City." Because what else could it be? The Downward and the Upward, Charles' whole world, formed a loose, sprawling ring around the City, which was a place only the truly rich could live. Every now and then Charles would dare to wander there, and those trips were as dangerous as they were fruitful. It was so easy to swipe a precious trinket, or even, on one memorable occasion, a fruit pie, cooling on a window sill. It had been sweet like anything, and rich, so rich that he gave a slice to every kid in the vicinity, and he saw them chewing on the remains for days. People in the City had magic to keep their houses warm and safe in the night, they had money and fine clothes, and food. It boggled the mind that someone would wander away from such splendour. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm not from the City," Erik said stiffly, tucking his hands close to his body. "Why would you think I was?"

"Is it true you have magic to warm your houses? I didn't think it could be true, but the books said that it was so. I always thought magic was too wild to do simple things like that – we have occasional magic storms here, you know, they rattle the Upward something awful. I know how to keep it contained, I mean, theoretically – I can read, you know. I tried it once during a storm, and it held, long enough to keep the children safe, but it was gone as soon as the sun shone, and I don't think I'd be able to keep anything warm longer than it took to eat it. How do you do it?"

"You talk a lot," Erik said, a little awed and little shocked. "Do you always talk this much?"

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but all of sudden there was a commotion on the lower levels, a commotion far removed from the usual hustle and bustle of the Upward market place. Through the cracks Charles could swear he could see a flash of purple thirty yards down; a flash of uniforms.

Golems. They sent in the golems, he thought, before the ridiculousness of the thought penetrated his brain fully. No golem could climb the Upward. They were too heavy. Still, the purple was the mark of the guard. There were humans in the guard, and if the guard ventured into the Upward, one had to be invisible.

"Quick!" he whispered, grasping Erik's hand. "Quiet."

He didn't know any actual spells, nothing real; nothing like the lengthy passages in the books, in which a magician would recite a poem and the magic would do his chores. What he knew, was silence and wind; his allies and his companions, who travelled with him all his life, always a breath away. He called them up now, climbing to and then running across the Rain, with Erik's hand held in his, towards the ladders which would draw them further into the Upward. Every level meant an additional layer of safety; the golems were heavy and even the market wouldn't accommodate them – heavens only knew how they made their way to the levels below, the streets were very narrow in these parts, though – there was no chance they would come looking on the higher levels.

Charles clambered the last few steps and stood at the scaffolding on which the first of many bridges rested, turning back to offer a hand to Erik. 

"You can't possibly mean to go there?" Erik exclaimed, scandalised. 

"You have to, if you want a safe place to sleep tonight."

"We are a hundred yards off the ground, the bridge is made of ropes, as is most of the structure, and you're telling me it's safe?"

Charles stopped in the middle, with both his feet firmly in the eyes of the net, and stared. "Of course," he said. "What could be safer?" He held out his hand for Erik to take and slowly, one foot after the other, they crossed the bridge, although Erik's eyes never left Charles' face and his feet sought purchase by feel only. Charles grinned. He was getting the hang of it already, and quick too, for a City boy. 

They climbed on through the Forest and into the Library, where Charles immediately crowded them both into his secluded corner, and into the hammock, because Erik was eyeing the flimsy floor with nothing short of trepidation. "And you’re sure we won't fall?"

"Reasonably so," Charles told him cheerfully. "I have never fallen, in any case."

"Yes, but forgive me for making the outrageous observation that now there's two of us here, and thus the load is considerably more than it usually is."

Interesting point, Charles thought. He never thought of it that way. "We should be fine, nonetheless," he said, shaking his head.

"I'm no reassured." Erik sat in the hammock as though it was a chair; his back was stiff and his posture prim. No wonder he was worried; the hammock demanded a different approach.

"You need to relax," Charles told him stretching all the way across and causing Erik considerable discomfort, if the way he grasped at the edges to steady himself was any indication. "Come on, lie down. I won't hurt you, I promise."

"As if you could hurt me," Erik muttered, but very cautiously began to spread his weight, until he and Charles were lying side-by-side, with their knees tangled and their noses nearly touching. "This is… snug."

"It could get cold in the night." Charles reached between them, for the small pack, wrapped in an old blanket, in which he had stored the last of his bread, a small pot filled with the remains of the pigeon stew and two apples. "Here." The blanket, wedged against their backs, allowed for a more comfortable sitting position, more suited to eating.

Erik glanced at the offered food then back up at Charles, then at the food again. "I can't."

"It's good food, I promise. The bread is a little old, but it's not too hard. Go on, you must be hungry. I know you didn't eat at Logan's."

"But—it's your food." Erik pushed the bread and the apples back to Charles. "I couldn't."

"Oh, I can always steal more," Charles said carelessly, causing Erik to frown.

"You steal the food?"

"Some of it, yes. Well, how else am I going to get apples? It's a little more complicated with bread. I bought this bread, with the cakes I stole."

"You could work, I presume?"

"Work where? People on the Downward don't have jobs to spare, certainly not enough to feed a person. Go on, have some." Charles pressed the spoon in Erik's hand and focussed on coaxing the wild magic into heating up the contents of the pot. "Pigeons of the Upward are nice and plump. You wouldn't think so, seeing those on the ground, but there's so many crickets up here, the pigeons make good eating. What's the matter, is it not good? It's probably not to your tastes, I don't have much in the way of spices."

Erik had, in the middle of Charles' speech, taken a mouthful of stew and was currently red in the face with his cheeks bulging. He was clearly fighting with himself, but in the end he swallowed and took a few gulping breaths. "This is pigeon?"

"I could try and trade someone for a rat, if you'd rather? I mean, there's not a lot, so it would have to be a small rat, but—"

"No, no. Pigeon is fine." Erik broke off a piece of the stale bread and dipped it in the stew, gathering up a chunk of meat. "It's quite succulent, now that I think about it." He wasn't wholly honest; when he put the bite in his mouth there was a moment during which he fought the food, but he chewed with determination and swallowed, and, after a moment, went for another bite. Charles beamed and grabbed the remaining bread, tearing it into smaller chunks and dipping them likewise in the stew. It was one of his better efforts, he thought: he'd traded a couple of apples for a small potato and a handful of salt for an onion, and the resulting stew was thick and delicious. Not to mention the pigeon had been so fat that the first night he could barely swallow more than a couple of spoonfuls, before his belly filled up. 

Erik didn't look like he fully appreciated it as the treat it was, but he was chewing through the stringy bits with grim determination, but his expression was clearing up as they ate. "This really isn't bad," he said when they were scraping the last of the stew from the bottom of the pot.

Charles beamed. "Pigeons are so much tastier than rats, wouldn't you say? Raven and I never got keen on rats."

"I wouldn't know." Erik was staring into the pot with a small frown on his face. "Is Raven your family?"

"Yes. She should be along soon."

True to form, Raven appeared out of the twilight, sliding through the shadows like a cloud through a night sky. Her fur was a deep blue, unlike any other cat in the Upward, which probably explained why she was such a great hunter – the pigeons didn't yet learn to anticipate a midnight-coloured predator. She tiptoed carefully around the holes in the floor and launched herself into the air, landing perfectly in the middle of the hammock, on Charles' lap, causing Erik to yelp in alarm.

"Hello, darling," Charles said sweetly, scratching her ears. "Did you have a good day?"

Raven stretched, digging her sharp claws into his clothes, and yawned. She tiptoed further, as though nothing was out of the ordinary, until she was nose-to-nose with Erik at which point she awarded him her most snide glare and sneezed.

"This is Erik," Charles said. "He's from the City."

Raven turned her luminous yellow eyes to him and meowed, at the very same moment Erik exclaimed "I'm most certainly not!"

"I'm sorry, I couldn't find a cake for you tonight," Charles said, running his fingers through her thick fur. "We had to run very quickly."

Raven purred and pushed her furry nose into his neck, before leaping off the hammock and into her nook in the corner. She curled up, tucking her nose into her hip and dozed off instantly, as cats of all colours are wont to. Charles often wished he had been born a cat, just to have this and not the myriads of sleepless nights, staring into the abyss of space overhead, wondering at each shadow to cross the skies.

"Why is there no roof here?" Erik asked, having finally directed his attention to their magnificent, star-streaked ceiling. The hammock hung under several dozen square feet of what could charitably be called a ceiling, but the rest of what must at once point had been a room was completely exposed. It had its advantages: Charles had an impressive view of the City and the palace in its middle, gleaming with all the colours of the autumn sky. 

"There used to be," Charles said quietly. "Back when the Upward was houses. I read that back in the ancient times the houses were tall as mountains, and the Upward is a relict of the ancient times. Before magic, I mean."

"I'm surprised you can read. Wait, no, I didn't—"

Charles frowned. "I'll have you know a lot of us here in the Library can read. It's not that hard."

"Sorry, I didn't mean offence. They told me that people outside the City are savages."

"Aha!" Charles sat up straight inducing a fresh wave of panic in Erik. "So you are from the City! I knew it." Then came the reflection on the content of the words. "We're not savages!"

"I can see that," Erik said, hanging on to the hammock edges for dear life. His hands shook a little and from the quick glances he cast from one pin, which held the hammock above the floor, to the other, it was obvious Erik was scared. He wouldn’t admit to it: every time he caught himself looking, he immediately averted his eyes and looked at Charles instead, but his knuckles were white and the grip tight.

"Don't worry," Charles said lightly, letting his body relax and mould into the folds of his bed, sliding into its hollow so that Erik was towering above him. "It really is quite safe." The words must have reached his guest, because Erik's fingers slid off the material's edges and he slid into the hammock, coming to rest against Charles, with his hands tucked against his body. The thick material nearly closed around them, forming a cocoon of warmth, and just in time, too, because Charles could feel the first touch of the night frost creeping in from the heavens. Raven sneezed somewhere outside, but Charles wasn't worried about her. It was yet another reason to be jealous: her fur was thick and lush, and nothing short of snowy winter would drive her into the contained space of the hammock at night. 

"It's cold," Erik noted with surprise.

"It can be," Charles agreed, wriggling to get a fold of a blanket from underneath them, to Erik's alarm. "Ah, there we go. It's perfectly snug in the night."

Erik was silent for a long minute. "Thank you," he whispered eventually. "You've been very kind to me."

"You're welcome." The faint starlight caught on a strand of Erik's hair and Charles smiled. It had been a long day, and already his eyes wouldn't stay open. The gentle breeze, undaunted by the combined weight of two boys, began swinging the hammock lazily from side to side. Yes, this would be a good night, Charles thought, basking in the delightful warmth supplied by another young body next to his. Erik smelled so nice, too; Charles turned and sighed in bliss when the movement of the fabric of the hammock pressed him into Erik, aligning his nose with Erik's neck. Sure, there was the overtone of dust, but all of the Downward smelled of dust, and so did everyone who spent more than an hour there. On Erik's skin the dust masked a multitude of rich smells, like the fabric he wore under the outer robe, for which Charles didn't even have a name, but when he touched it with his lips it felt like tasting a pear, cool and smooth.

He sighed again, giddy with excitement, and then Erik shifted, somewhat impatiently, and Charles was being kissed. It was a most peculiar thing: Erik's lips were trembling and unsure and he attempted to withdraw the moment they made contact, mumbling an apology and masking an embarrassed smile with a cough. Charles grinned in return and gave chase into the minute space between them, pressing their lips together. He fisted his hands in the bundled up material at Erik's waist, smiling all the wider when Erik gasped or shuddered. In turn he let Erik seek out the folds of his clothing and slip his hands inside, until they were both dishevelled enough to continue the game across naked skin.

Charles marvelled in equal parts at the soft undershirt Erik was wearing as well as the smoothness of his skin, and spared a moment or two to think how his own clothes, rather rough and swiped from the Downward cleaning lines at various, chronologically remote, points in the past, must feel on his hands, when Charles himself had to deal with irritation now and then. Still, no complaints were forthcoming. Erik snuck an arm between Charles and the hammock, drawing them closer together. Charles ended up straddling Erik's thigh, quite the feat to accomplish with unbuckled trousers, and when their bodies aligned just right, he felt a jolt go through his whole being, from his fingertips to his toes. Erik's arms were tight around him, and his mouth rasped against Charles' neck, even as their combined come began to cool on their skin.

Charles barely had the presence of mind to do so, but he found among his odds-and-ends a rag he could wipe them down with, as well as a bottle of water. Erik blinked at him sleepily, but didn't protest the ministrations, delivering instead a soft kiss to Charles' lips when he was done. There was a sense of triumph to his manner, as though he'd achieved some great deed, which Charles found difficult to understand. Surely it wasn't that unusual in the City, to find pleasure with another on a cold night, or in fact any night at all?

Maybe it was true what they said about the City folk, he mused. Maybe they truly are unlike us, he thought, letting the gentle sway of the hammock lull him into night's rest.

*****

Dawn was a difficult time in the Upward. To begin with, it was usually very cold, even when one was wrapped up in their thickest blanket. That particular morning Charles discovered he really ought to find someone to share his hammock on a permanent basis, because when he opened his eyes not only was he wonderfully warm, but to his surprise the sun was shining into his eyes, happily perched over the palace's wall. 

Charles had never, to the best of his recollection, managed to sleep through dawn, although considering the effort he needed to expend just to get Erik to open his eyes, he was the only one.

"What time is it?"

"It's well past dawn," Charles said giddily. "And I still have the apples!" he recovered them from the tangles of his blanket and shined one against his sleeve, before offering it to Erik. 

"Don’t you have coffee?"

"What's a coffee?" Charles cocked his head to the side. "Is it a morning cake?"

Erik cursed under his breath, which sounded a little guilty to Charles' ears, but took the apple. "It's a drink," he said as he bit into it. "You have to grind coffee beans and steep them in boiling water, filter and then add milk and honey. It's very good in the early morning."

"Oh, I love milk," Charles said dreamily. "Sometimes I have enough to trade for a cup, but it's not often. Milk is expensive, you know. There are only a few goats in the Upward, and the people of Downward guard theirs very jealously. I've never had honey though, unless it was in cakes. Is it good?"

Erik looked away. "It's very sweet and golden like the sunset."

"That does sound delicious." Charles slid out of the hammock and began straightening his clothes. "We'd better go though, if we want to wash up; the whole of Upward would be there soon. I usually get up much earlier."

The slithered down the multiple ladders to the Rain, where Erik had to be persuaded to abandon his nice clothes for a moment to step into the washing pool. It took Charles a moment, but eventually he caught the wary glances sent towards the other people present, most of who were no older then the two of them. "Don't worry," Charles said in a low voice. "We don't steal in the Upward and certainly not in the Rain."

He wasn't entirely convinced Erik believed him, but he abandoned the clothes and washed up with the rest of them, and had the manners to keep the relief off his face when they returned to find his fine clothes exactly where he left them. They didn't hurry – by the time they climbed the final stretch of ladder and stepped onto the beaten ground the sun was high in the sky. Charles led them through the narrow streets of the Downward markets and alleys, towards the City walls, aiming for a spot in-between two of the seven gates. His kind wasn't exactly welcome there, and the golems at the gates made a point out of picking up street rats. Most of them managed to escape, because the golems might have been strong and scary, but they couldn’t hurt people, and they weren't equipped to chase small, nimble bodies. Nearly everyone Charles knew had a story about escaping the clutches of the golems. The few kids that didn’t escape their hold, however, only reappeared as cautionary tales to the rest.

"Here," Charles said, pausing before the wall. Guarded gates were looming and scary, but over the years enough people needed to get in or out of the City, and there were spots on the wall where bits of brick had been chipped away, just enough to prop one's feet and hands. For those who grew up in the Upward, it was no more difficult than crossing a Downward street, which was why Charles adroitly bounced off the ground and in a few seconds was straddling the wall , while Erik took his time to do the same, eventually coming to sit beside him.

"I'll leave you here," Charles said. "Can you find your house?"

"Yes," Erik sad without hesitation. "It won't be a problem." He glared at something in the distance, before turning back to Charles. He started to say something, but to Charles' surprise in the end did nothing of the sort, and leaned in for a kiss instead. "Thank you."

"Oh – it was a pleasure. Goodbye!" If he held Erik's hand a little tighter than he would normally in this situation, if he wished they didn't have to part, well, no one would know.

Erik didn't look too pleased when he reached the ground on the other sidem which was a small comfort. Charles could see his feet had already touched the ground, but his hands were still holding on to the wall. Eventually Erik looked up, nervous and unsure, but with a fire in his pale eyes. "Do you think I could visit you again?" he asked.

Charles blinked and smiled. "Certainly, if you'd like to."

Erik smiled back and Charles found his heart was beating a wild rhythm, even when his new friend turned around the corner and disappeared from sight. He kept looking, nonetheless, even as he threw his leg over the wall and prepared to jump, which, in retrospect, was extremely foolish. He didn't realise just how foolish, until he started sliding, straight into the arms of a patrolling golem.

This wasn't right, he thought in panic. Golems were dependable creatures; a pair departed a gate every two hours, ambling clockwise towards the next gate, joining the two golems stationed there. The gates were evenly spaced, and it took about an hour for one of the creatures to travel from one to the other, which meant Charles should have had a good half-hour to disappear. 

Instead, he slid into a tight ring of not two, but four golems, two of which immediately closed their enormous clay hands around his wrists. Charles whimpered in fright when their grip tightened. He knew they couldn't harm humans, the books said so. The books never lied. He looked around, desperate for a way out, but instead his gaze fell onto a diminutive figure in the darkness. It was no taller than a child of eight, but the moment Charles laid eyes on it, he felt dread. 

This could only be Lord Trask, he thought, taking a step back and flattening himself against the wall. He wasn't mistaken. The man in the shadows stepped forward, drawing back his hood. 

"The lengths a man has to go to, just to catch a rat," he said with distaste. Charles tried to draw back further, never mind the physical impossibility, but the golems were holding him fast, and short of cutting off both his arms and growing wings in their place, he could do nothing, even when Lord Trask snapped his fingers and the golems pushed him onto his knees. "This one has magic, and quite a bit of it. More than I dared to hope," Trask said. "Good." To the golems he added, "Take him to the tower immediately. Make sure you aren't seen and take good care not to let him escape."

The golems pulled Charles back to his feet and crowded him at all sides, so that he would proceed forward even if he refused to move his limbs. Lord Trask did not follow them and Charles felt a sliver of hope. Maybe, if he slipped the golems he could escape. They were commanded not to be seen, and indeed they were taking the alleys onto which no window opened, and where no dog barked. He only needed one chance; he was quick and if he could only break their hold, he would be safe. No golem would go into the Upward, and even the Downward would give them pause. 

Charles took a deep breath and recalled every bit of magic he knew that could come useful, which, given his present situation wasn't much. He called on it anyway; he called on silence and wind, and in his fright managed something he'd never done before: the silence chipped at one of the golems and the wind carried the dust of its clay, and just like that, his left arm was free. He turned quickly, reaching for any trinket he might have in his pocket and came up with an utterly useless bit of a pencil. Hardly the weapon against a golem, but he dug his heels into the ground and tried, anyway.

He achieved nothing. The golems were dull creatures, and even the one he damaged didn't react to the hurt, merely stepped back to change places with the one that walked behind Charles, which in turn had stepped to the side and forward, dragging its foot right where Charles had chosen to stand his ground. 

If there was one thing left to appease his pride, Charles thought when the sickening crunch sent all of his nerves aflame, it was that he didn’t scream. Not even a whimper. The golems didn't even pause, but the one which held his right arm simply picked him up over its shoulder and continued walking, its pace unchanged. "A least they want me more or less whole," Charles thought, biting his lip. "They could have dragged me through the streets, made me run on the broken leg. It was something." Plus, he would finally find out what happened to the others who disappeared by the City wall, even if that was only a small consolation.


	2. the golden robe

As well as he knew the terrains outside the City, the inside caught him by surprise. To begin with, the golems ducked into a house on the outer side of the wall, descending into its cellar and pushing through a secret door and then a tunnel whose other entrance was within the City perimeter. Further surprises followed: what seemed like nothing but gleaming streets and shining brass rooftops from the heights of his Upward home turned out to shadow alleys not unlike the Downward, although usually cleaner. The four golems traversed the City unseen, even though they hardly bothered to hide; they merely moved through where the people rarely walked. Charles lost orientation quickly, unfamiliar as he was with the streets inside the wall, his previous excursions having taken him to the busiest corners, rich in merchants. He had a feeling they were nearing the palace, and as correct as that feeling was (he soon saw the golems duck into the darkness of a narrow door in the palace's fortification) it helped him not at all. 

He couldn't even tell how long they walked in complete darkness, owing in part to an intense attack of fright he had never known before. It was only after he saw the first candle that he realised the probable reason: he had never before been inside an actual building. All of Upward had wind roaring, flowing or at the very least whispering through its nooks, and there were only a few places in the Downward that you couldn’t see the sky. Therefore, when the golems carried him into the mazes beneath the palace he lost all sense, not that sense would help much, when he knew next to nothing about the palace. 

The dark maze seemed to have no end, but eventually the golems began ascending equally dark stairs. At the very top there was a door, which lead to a narrow corridor and then into yet another door, which betrayed the existence of sunlight on the other side. The golems deposited Charles there, in this empty, round room, which thankfully had windows. They did little to ameliorate the ambience, which, even in the light of day, was brought down by the shadows clinging to the bricks. The windows were high, but the wall was far from smooth, and if he could only get to his feet, he'd be out of there in no time. Alas! The golems were thorough and Charles had been sat on the floor, with his arms shackled to the wall over his head. Once the lock had snapped closed, the four shuffled out of the room, but Charles wasn't alone for long. 

Before the door had the chance to close, another figure walked in. Unlike the golems, which were humanoid shapes of clay, this one was swathed in clothes, although Charles had trouble determining its sex or age. It moved stiffly, which suggested age, and could be his saving grace – elderly women often looked at him with fond affection, no doubt owing to his large, blue eyes and innocent face. 

"Please," he said in a hushed, reverent whisper, "what is to happen to me?"

The figure was silent. It knelt by his hurt leg and began prodding it with a gloved finger. Charles narrowly contained a whimper of pain, even though the touch was not cruel, merely testing. Finally it looked up, to stare briefly at Charles' face, and he very nearly screamed. This was a golem, too! Someone had taken great pains to fashion it into a figure closely resembling that of an elderly human, and cloak it besides, but the dull glow of the eyes and the red of clay peeking from beneath the veil gave it away. Charles would have scooted away, were there anything but a wall at his back and cold iron on his wrists, but the golem clearly meant him no harm. It rose and fetched a splint and bandages, and began to wrap his injured leg, until Charles was quite certain he could prop himself on it, if need be.

The golem offered Charles a cup of some sweet concoction, tipping it to his lips at regular intervals, until the cup emptied, so that he could either drown or drink, while hoping it was not poison. He was fairly confident it wasn't, and a short while later, once the golem left, he discovered with delight that his leg hurt a lot less. Medicine, then.

Which, in turn, raised the frightening question of why would Lord Trask take him from the streets and heal his hurts? Surely it couldn’t have been charity, which prompted this act, and, as far as Charles understood charity, it involved very little chains and even less dungeons. Charles stretched his legs, first the good one, then the bad, and tried to crane his neck enough to see the locks, which held him down. A simple latch, something he would be able to undo in seconds, with a free hand. Even tied down as he was he should be able to reach with his foot and open it… if he had a key.

He may have been a little doomed.

He couldn't see the sky from where he was sitting – the windows were too high – but he could see the quality of light and he could catalogue the feelings in his stomach, which, in combination with the position of the sun, were as reliable as any clock. He could clearly hear someone moving in the room adjacent to his cell, likely the golem, although once or twice he thought he could hear Lord Trask as well. Neither approached his cell again, until well into the afternoon, when the door opened and the clothed golem walked in, bearing a tray of food. It knelt by his side and fed him a thick stew, far richer than what he was used to, and it wouldn’t stop feeding him, until he gagged. She let him drink wine from a small cup, and then left for another hour, when she unlocked the manacles and led him into the corner, keeping a firm hold on his arm, so that he could relieve himself.

Two things became apparent:

One, his injured leg could support his weight as he stood or hobbled, but it would not allow him to run or climb.

Two, this was likely the end of his road, anyway; there was no mistaking the desiccated remains in the darkest alcove for what they were. There were no clothes, nor anything to distinguish the corpse. These were just old bones, stacked in a dark corner of a cell no one had access to. Charles closed his eyes and let the golem walk him back to the shackles, although he paid very close attention to the key with which she shackled him. It was nothing unusual, to his eye, merely a metal rod with a set of teeth. Now, given a pot of hot metal, a small pair of tongs and a smaller hammer, several days and basic instruction he could have worked something out. None of these were likely to be supplied, despite the hospitability of the golem, so that plan was abandoned as soon as it arose.

The light outside slid from white into gold, and just as it was turning orange (light being the sole time-measuring technique left to him, considering that his stomach was full to the point of bursting), when a shadow appeared in the window. Charles started. A dark shape slid smoothly from the windowsill and sailed down to meet him. It was an eagle; a great eagle, whose feathers glistened as though they were oiled recently. In its beak there was a small key, an exact twin of the key which held Charles' wrists immobile.

Before Charles' eyes, the eagle dropped the key in the sand, barely close enough for Charles to be able to gather it with the toes of his right foot. He'd never in his life shed a shoe faster. The key was small, and holding it with his toes was this side of impossible, but a desperate mind wields a body as it will, and Charles managed to fit it into the lock at the second try. Turning it was the work of a moment, and within seconds he was free! He grabbed his shoe, and turned to thank the creature. The great eagle, he discovered, had watched him carefully, then, as quickly as it had come, rushed at him, tore the key out of his hand and soared towards the window. Charles watched it leave with a profound sense of gratitude and an even greater sense of puzzlement. The miraculous nature of this he would contemplate later; at the moment escape was his top priority.

He might be able to climb to the window, if he were desperate enough, he thought, examining the walls. A broken leg, however, rendered him unable to run, unable to jump. The door to the cell was locked; the window was his only chance. With the vision of Lord Trask materialising dangerously quick in his mind, Charles scaled the wall, finding enough support for his hands and one good foot that he managed to reach the window with relative ease. A quick peek outside gave him enough hope to hoist himself to the other side and inch alongside the parapet to the nearest open window. It was, thankfully, empty. Charles went inside and slid to the floor using the thick curtains as means of support. Any other day he would have been delighted: there were countless books in the room, tomes upon tomes of ancient knowledge; he would have happily remained in the room for as long as he lived. Sadly, he didn’t anticipate that to be his fate. 

This was a moment to breathe, and think, no more. He couldn't run. He barely knew the palace. He needed to get out. Of course, being unable to run, he would never make it to the Upward before nightfall, and even if he did, with only one good leg seeking safety there wouldn't just be difficult: it would be impossible. Certainly tonight, and maybe for a few days to follow.

Which meant he needed to seek shelter within the City, which, in turn, considering his lack of knowledge of its working, meant an inn. Lord Trask instantly recognised him as a street rat – even if he bothered searching, he would order his golems to seek alleys and dumpsters, not inns. Would he bother searching? Charles hoped not. Why would he search for him, anyway, for something as minor as scaling the City wall?

All depended on two things, however: getting out of the palace, and getting money to secure the right to remain at an inn, undisturbed.

Charles looked around again. He looked like a street rat; the mismatched clothes would give him away instantly. The people of the City were very particular about what they wore. Even Erik, who took pains to disguise himself well enough for a casual glance to slide right past him, wore clothes which fit his slender body exactly. Charles felt an inexplicable pang of melancholy at that – the odds of ever seeing Erik again were slim. Even if he did keep his promise and sought out the entrance to the Upward Charles usually used, well, usually was the key. Maybe with a little effort, since he was in the City, he might try searching, but even that was a foolish thought.

Enough. Escape first, daydream later. He was in the chambers of a rich man – there would be spare clothes whose absence he wouldn't notice. As an added bonus these would be clothes he could easily sell on the City markets, piece by piece, hopefully raising enough money for a brief stay at an inn.

It was the very same instant in which he realised he was inside a study, not a changing room and began to despair, that he saw the robe. It was laid out on a chair, not thrown carelessly, but it was on a chair, and thus presumably not something a rich man would care about not being able to find instantly. Strange that it didn't seem to have been made for Lord Trask, as it had long sleeves he would have found entirely impractical. Charles shrugged his worn jacket and shirt, hoping that his trousers and shoes would escape notice, underneath the riches. He bundled his old clothes and set about figuring out the intricacies of the robe, and despite the initial impression, he found the fastening sprung to their proper places and latching them together was the work of a moment. The robe consisted of three separate garments: a green shift, light as a feather, a violet inner robe, with golden fastenings across the front, and finally gold brocade with a tapered tail, tassles and sleeves long enough to tangle, which was held together with a wide belt. At the very least getting dressed was no harder than it usually was, Charles thought with some humour. His own mismatched shirt and jacket (if one was generous enough to apply the names) were held together with far more constructed fastenings, and felt far worse on his skin. This robe was delightfully smooth and smelled of rich spice and warmth. A little like Erik in fact, enough so that Charles had to quell another instance of his heart hurting. Ridiculous, he told himself, marching to the mirror and checking whether he looked presentable. You've only known the boy for a day.

The mirror revealed someone new and alien: a handsome, slender stranger, with hair brushed back from his face (although experience dictated it wouldn't stay that way), with luminous eyes and a soft glow to his skin, likely the light reflected in the brocade. Braced with this new-found confidence at passing for a rich man, Charles carefully stepped to the door and listened. When he registered no footsteps, he tried his bad leg again, and, assured that it would bear his weight so long as he didn't attempt a run, walked out of the room.

The immediate hallway was poorly-lit, but Charles quickly realised it was only because of the time of day. Early in the morning the sun would be shining directly into the high windows, which explained the scarcity of torches. More importantly, it mapped a direction. The shadows outside lay perpendicular to the building, so he was standing in a corridor build along the north-south line. With that in mind he turned right and sought out a way leading west, where there should be at least one exit, the one facing his home.

Treading on carpets and marble, altogether very stable flooring, was a new experience. Charles was so used to getting from one place to another at a gentle trot, that walking steadily, while favouring one leg, was something into which he had to put conscious effort. He recalled the need for standing up straight and not ducking into doorways at the slightest sound; chances were that would be far more alarming than an unfamiliar face in rich clothing.

His luck held out for another ten minutes of wandering. He reached a massive courtyard unchallenged, going as far as acknowledging a maid with a nod, to which she reacted with a panicked yelp, and continued towards the gates he could almost see, when the sharp voice of Lord Trask broke through the commonplace chatter of the courtyard. 

"Stop him!"

Charles felt the command stir the magic and reverberate in the ground, but not the air, which was how he knew it was directed at the golems, not people, and was therefore not at all surprised to suddenly have both his upper arms encircled in clay fists. He had missed the golems, stationed along the columns which lined the yard. 

The commotion had not gone unnoticed. Everyone in the courtyard paused to look at the sudden interruption. More than one person dropped whatever they were holding when their eyes found Charles, to his dull surprise. 

The golems began to walk, lifting Charles enough so that his feet did not touch the ground. They were about to step back into the corridor which would take them back to where Charles began, when another voice stopped them mid-step, just as Lord Trask emerged from the shadows and, as soon as the golems forced him to his knees, jabbed Charles' chest with his finger. "I don't know how you got out, but I will find out, and rest assured—"

"Well done, Lord Trask," the other man had said, coming towards them. Through a light sheen of tears Charles saw a moderately tall man, clad in a simple navy suit, with hardly any ornamentation. "Well done indeed."

Lord Trask stiffened. "I have the situation under control, general; your involvement is not necessary."

The man let out a pleasant laugh. "Now I know you jest. It is not every day that we discover an errant prince."

"Shaw, all due respect, but this here is a street rat and a thief."

"He is also wearing the phoenix robe," General Shaw said, a touch dreamily.

"Really? A malnourished child, clearly born and raised in the Upward, emerges from the palace basement wearing what, admittedly, looks very much like the phoenix robe, and instantly you want to ring the bells?" Lord Trask said with utmost confidence. "Impatient are we?"

The discussion was slowly attracting a crowd of spectators, but Charles couldn't bring himself to complain. Whatever Lord Trask's purpose was, he clearly required secrecy, and this was as secret a setting as the fruit market. Instantly he felt safer, with a myriad of living bodies surrounding him, breathing in and out, buzzing with the faintest tendrils of magic.

"Oh, is this a fake?" The general exclaimed with genuine surprise colouring his voice. "Truly, we have some remarkable tailors available. I could swear on my life this was the genuine artefact, after looking at it ever since this boy emerged, rather confused, wandering here and there, and here you come in, step out into the sun, and instantly you can tell it's a forgery."

Lord Trask frowned. "I see a homeless child, who couldn't possibly be wearing it. The conclusion naturally suggests itself. Let's have the golems take it off him and make sure it is, in fact, the true robe."

"Well, luckily enough I can't imagine a matter more easily put to the test." General Shaw cast a look around, and focussed his gaze on one of the young soldiers by the gate. "Janos, you are a brave fellow – help the young man out of the robe."

"Sir—"

"Nothing to fear; or at least not much. If Lord Trask is correct, which he may well be, you will not be harmed at all. I hardly expect you to put it on, after all."

The soldier caught Charles eye, sharing his dread at the spectacle they were both forced into, and stepped closer, relinquishing his spear to his companion. He reached out slowly, and laid his palm on the golden brocade. Charles felt his heart thunder in his chest, but nothing happened, for a moment or two, and then the guard leapt back with a scream. His palm was red as though he'd grasped a burning torch.

"There, there," the general said, patting the man on the shoulder. "Very little actual harm done. Dismissed, soldier. Seek the healers immediately, and don't report for duty until they declare you fit to hold a spear again."

The soldier gritted his teeth, but straightened his back and saluted, before – and this Charles noticed particularly – stalking off. The general did not demand a rigid adherence to propriety, it seemed, just as the rumours promised.

The man himself turned to face the courtyard and the crowd therein with his palms spread. "Well, now that we solved this conundrum, does anyone else wish to contest the young gentleman's right to the phoenix robe? Lord Trask?"

"It appears it is the genuine article after all," Lord Trask said coolly. "Very well."

"Marvellous." The general beamed and clapped his hands. The two golems, which still held Charles between them, straightened, raising him a hairsbreadth further from the ground. "As handsome as our young friend is, he is also a little dusty, rather unbefitting the occasion. I would wager he wouldn't say no to a hearty meal and a rest. Take him to a well-guarded suite and await further orders at the door. Make sure the windows are barred. Make sure there's a golem available to assist the maids; the robe needs a heavier hand."

The golems turned without a sound and carried Charles back into the palace, further, it seemed, and further away from freedom.

*****

The day couldn't possibly be stranger. In the morning Charles woke up in his own hammock, curled around a handsome boy his own age, shortly before midday he was arrested, next he was a shackled prisoner, awaiting his fate in a dungeon, and in the evening this: an opulent, sunny room, with an enormous feathery bed in the middle, a bookcase by the wall and a huge fireplace in the corner. There was a rug on the floor, thick enough to tickle his ankles as he stepped on it, a small table and a few chairs, as well as a few trinkets, here and there, any of which suggested immense wealth to anyone fortunate enough to sell it.

There was still enough sunlight to appreciate the splendour of his surrounding, but whatever there was to see by, soon became not enough to plot an escape by. Charles looked around the room twice before the impending evening forced him to abandon his search – because, and here was another thing he envied Raven for, her ability to see in the darkest night, he could perhaps risk the climb when he could see, and no sooner – and drove him to settle on the steps leading to the bed.

Soon after the trumpets let the City know the sun hid behind the horizon, the door opened and a slender golem, wearing veils and gloves, walked in, bearing a tray of food. It was similar, though not quite the same, as the golem which fed him in the dungeon. The door was immediately closed, but not so soon Charles didn't notice the twin golems, both large and shapeless, stationed outside.

The door was out, as an escape route. He ambled to the window and found that even though the wall outside was elaborately decorated and rich in ivy, thus ideal for climbing, there were thick iron bars laid into the frame, right outside the glass panes, which an infant would have trouble passing. Charles tried not to panic. By his knowledge prisoners typically weren't awarded comfortable rooms with and exquisite view, but rather obscure cells in the very depths of the dungeons. Yet something about this opulence frightened him more than the barren cell did, previously. There was a reason for the opulence, a reason which Charles couldn’t fathom. With Lord Trask it was easy – a death, even a painful one, he could understand and anticipate. He was a thief, after all, one who spend much of his time climbing remote heights. An arrest and execution was always in the back of his mind, even though he thought of himself as honourable, as was a long fall. Being held as a guest of high honour, on the other hand, that was far more sinister.

A crisp sound of two metallic things coming in contact startled him out of his musings. He turned, expecting a notched bow or even a gun to be pointed in his direction, though who would spare an expense of this kind for him, but it was only the golem, which set food on the table, bowed and departed, leaving Charles to his increasingly dark imaginings.

The only entertainment, other than the few books on the shelves, he got over a three-day period he spent in the room was the visit of the general on the third afternoon. The man had walked in, followed by a golem, and surveyed the room with a satisfied smirk on his face. 

"This won't do at all… Fortunately, it doesn't have to."

Charles stiffened. This was it. The very reason he was brought here, his doom.

"Well, best begin with a proper bath," General Shaw said cheerfully, clapped his hands and departed, leaving Charles still flabbergasted and staring at the impassive golem, which returned his gaze without the slightest hint of interest, before taking him by the arm and dragging him away.

Charles was somewhat relieved that the promise of a bath was exactly that: the golem carried him straight into the steamy interior of the palace bathroom, where two servants quickly divested him of his thin shirt and trousers, paying particular attention to his broken leg. Once he was nude, two firm sets of hands guided him into a steaming bathtub, where they proceeded to wash him thoroughly with scented soaps. Charles felt as though he was caught in an enthusiastic, expensive hurricane of warm water, scented oils and bubbles, which whirled around him, clipping excess bits from the toes to his hair. When he was finally allowed out of the bath, he was dried and rubbed down with lotion, his hair was brushed and scented and his leg re-bandaged by a real healer, who then offered him a healing potion and left, after bowing reverently.

Charles had a very, very bad feeling about this, which he felt he was entitled to, standing naked as the day he was born, groomed to perfection, on marble floor, while two servants dabbed him with huge, fluffy towels and helped him into a pair of trim pants. He tried to instantly recall everything he ever read about palace customs, but his memory failed to confirm or deny the existence of a tradition which called for human sacrifices.

The servants stepped aside respectfully and the golem which had served him his meals stepped forward, with the golden robe laid out in its arms. The green shirt slid over Charles' naked skin and clung there, as though I had been made to fit him, which of course it hadn't been – the very idea! He missed his old clothes, rough as they were, especially compared to the fine silks in the inner lining of this robe. At least they wouldn't kill him, Charles tried to reason as the golem worked its way through the golden lacings. This robe was expensive. They wouldn't put it on him just to kill him.

Right?

  


Finally, once the belt was secured and every fold arranged, one of the servants, the woman, approached him with great caution and placed a mask over his face and a ring of pearls over his forehead, taking great care not to brush against him. Then the golem grasped his arm, quite respectfully, none of this "carrying a prisoner" thing, and lead him through the mazes of the corridors into the chapel.

Charles, though quite at home with crowds, was used to slipping undetected through them. His entire existence was built around passing by multitudes of people unnoticed, even unseen. Now he found himself in a corridor of faces, some of which were happy, some neutral, all surprised (although it had to be said – not one seemed angry). The golem let go of his arm and stepped back, and Charles very nearly turned and ran, or would have, because there had to be hundreds of people staring at him, only at him, as though he was the attraction in a circus.

"You look presentable." General Shaw appeared at his side, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. "Good. Now, you will walk to the altar and the ceremony will begin."

"What? What ceremony, what is going on?"

"Your marriage, dear boy. Smile – it is not every day one gets married to a prince of the realm. Congratulations."

Wild horses couldn't drag a syllable out of Charles' mouth if they tried. 

"Ah, I nearly forgot." The general handed him a handsome cane, made of dark red wood. "Holy, to match your robe. Now go, the people wish to see their prince wed. They have been waiting for a while."

"What?" he managed weakly, as the general made a twirling motion with his finger and nudged his heel with his foot to propel him forward, in the direction of the altar, before melting back into the crowd of onlookers. The solid wall of people closed around him, and all of it, every face, was fixed on Charles. 

For a long moment there was silence. Then the cheers started. First it was a murmur in the back; someone let out a joyous whoop, even if it came out weak and questioning, but the original voice didn't quite sound out before someone else had picked it up, with more conviction, and soon the entire hall was chanting garbled words of encouragement and delight. 

Charles heard very little of it, over the roar of his own panic. He made it to the altar, guided by the narrow passage the crowd granted him and stood with his mind completely empty as the cheering and chanting began anew, as another person was spat out by the crowd to join him.

Whether this situation validated mindless panic or not, Charles slipped into the state despite it being a complete novelty. He heard very little of what the bishop uttered during the service, and, when prompted, repeated the syllables expected of him, without fully comprehending what was going on. All he knew was that there were people staring at him, that there were hundreds of them and that his stomach was queasy, that every breath drove him deeper into a state of where he had no idea what was actually happening and so, when the bishop fell silent and he was gently prompted to turn to face the masked stranger he'd just been given to, his vision began to swim and for a moment he was sure he saw Erik, staring at him with concern, which hardly made sense, considering the situation, and did nothing but made his heart ache again.

The gathered crowds began to sing, and gods, this was even worse than the cheers. There was structure in the songs, a kind of veneration and therefore magic, that build upwards, closing above him like the dome of a cathedral, and it was everywhere, surrounding him from all sides, clogging his mouths, his ears, his eyes. A faint tendril of smoke rose from a candle and Charles wished, desperately, to be able to follow it to the ceiling and beyond. The desire swelled up in him, filling every last crevice of his being, and burst, and in that moment there was utter silence. Charles opened his eyes to find everyone, every last soul within his eyesight, was still as a statue, frozen in an expression of utmost delight.

He felt a feather-light touch, just a brush of fingers against his hand, and his heart fluttered. The touch was warm and familiar, something he might imagine in the darkness to bring him courage. He looked up, startled, then down, to note the red and purple robe, the colours of the royal house, and extending from it a hand, reaching for his, and with that the moment broke, and cheers began anew. The prince nudged Charles' shoulder with his, while taking his hand by the tips of his fingers, so that his skin didn't come in contact with the golden brocade, and leading him from the altar towards the open gates of the chapel. The crowds parted before them, sliding back like a smooth, unanimous mass and not a crowd of individuals. It was better now that Charles could feel the sun on his face and the wind in his hair; he could call on the silence to push some of the voices away, restore his focus. He saw, at last, that the extended hands always stopped just a hair away from him, that they were not reaching to grasp him, but rather to be close, as though he was a flame and they were cold. He saw, in their faces, profound joy, and not only at the spectacle – which, he had no doubt, was grand – but at something deeper, too. 

Perhaps the fact that it was a wedding had this effect, this shouldn’t be surprising at all. Some of the weddings in the Upward were rambunctious occasions and Charles remembered feeling happy just because he was standing close to the bride.

Of course, he thought to himself wryly, how did that work, when he was standing at the altar and decidedly did not feel happy, was anyone's guess.

"Why are they cheering?" he asked under his breath, acutely aware that he was holding hands with a prince – provided no one had lied to him, but for this many people to be watching his every move, it was a given he'd just married someone important – and that he was addressing him without the necessary courtly titles.

"The free bread would be my guess," the prince replied, and squeezed Charles' hand.

"Will there be bread?" He'd eaten the very generous meal provided to him, or at least as much of it as he was able. Three times a day for the past three days a maid had come into his room and set out a tray with a steaming bowl of broth, a large cut of meat, sometimes warm, sometimes cold, cooked vegetables, fruit, pastries. There'd been no bread and Charles found he missed it dearly, as unlike Raven, he didn't have a taste for sweets.

"Weren't you fed? Sebastian assured me you were cared for." The prince squeezed Charles' fingers. "He swore to me that he would look after you."

"There was plenty of food, just no bread."

"I'll make sure there will be plenty of bread from now on," the prince said with a well of warmth in his voice. Charles looked at him curiously, but half of his face was obscured with a mask and a crown, neither of which offered many clues, as far as emotions were concerned.

"You're a strange prince," Charles said and turned to the balcony railing. Down in the square there were hundreds of people, and every last one of them stared, but from this height it was easier to find his bearing, easier to find balance. Just like walking the tightrope, Charles thought with a smile. "I could almost believe I'm back in the Upward, looking at the market."

"What?" The prince was looking at him again.

"Never mind – thank you, the chapel was a dreadful place. I feel much better here."

"I figured. Wave."

The last command gave Charles pause. Wave? Only after looking at the prince for a moment did he realise what he was meant to do and felt silly for it. He raised his hand in a greeting, suddenly shy, realising how ridiculous he must look, standing by the prince in an expensive robe, while they all cheered. Surely it must have been a misunderstanding; surely it would be swiftly corrected and he'd be able to return to his home, to the Upward.

He could see it in the distance; a wall loosely interspersed with greenery, forming a loose, jagged ring around the City. If he looked hard enough he thought he could see people moving within, climbing the outer structure or just sitting on the protruding beams.

A shadow passed over his face, immediately followed by the cry of an eagle. Charles looked up, startled, but the eagle was already gone from sight, although by the sound of it the landing was nearby, within the palace. Was it the same eagle that got him out of jail? He couldn't be sure. In fact, he thought, he wasn't yet certain whether he was, or should be, thankful for being out of that jail. Thus far the prince had been kind, but stories travelled and not all of the palace-dwellers were known for being kind. The best course of action, Charles decided, was to keep his head down and wait, until an opportunity for an escape arose.


	3. sugar berries

The festivities lasted far longer than Charles was comfortable with, rich in flower petals, pouring wine and bread, but poor in escape opportunities, leaving him breathless and anxious to find a way to the rooftops. Fortunately for his peace of mind not long after the prince uttered a heartfelt statement of gratitude to the people waiting underneath the balcony he and Charles were whisked away to a secluded chamber, whose enormous windows were framed with feather-light curtains and gave the illusion of being permanently swept by the wind. 

Charles fell to his knees the moment they walked through the door, scooted back until he had a stone wall against his back, clutching his aching leg to his chest in fright.

"Hey," the prince said, kneeling by his side. "You don't have to be scared of me."

"I'm not scared," Charles told him, with only a touch of anger. "Not in the slightest."

"Of course not." The prince shook his head and sat down. Charles felt eyes on him, boring into the side of his head. Mildly annoyed, he turned his head toward the prince and narrowed his eyes, but as soon as his vision focussed he sat up straight and stammered, "It's you!"

Because it was Erik, and the face at the altar had been no illusion. He felt as though he should have known this from the beginning, from the moment he felt the touch of the prince's hand, because it was the same, exactly, as Erik's touch.

This didn't mean he wasn't angry. Even if Erik had the good grace to looked embarrassed as he ducked his head and said, "Yes, I know."

"How is this—You didn't tell me you were the prince!"

"It's hardly something I was going to admit to the first person I met on the street, is it, when the whole point was to be anonymous." Erik huffed and crossed his arms. "I wasn't sure if you weren’t just going to kidnap me."

"Why would I kidnap you? Where would I kidnap you?"

"For money," Erik said, thoroughly ignoring the second half of the question, the weightier one. Charles was not that foolish, he could divine a reason for kidnapping. The practicalities of keeping a prisoner in the Upward – of getting a prisoner into the Upward! – that was far harder to overlook.

"What do I need money for?" he said instead. "Hardly anyone in the Downward deals with money."

Erik smiled at that. It was a slow smile, at first, but it grew as Charles watched, encompassing his whole face and lighting merry sparks in his eyes. Erik really was very handsome.

"Can I ask what just happened?" Charles stared at the intricate stitching on the hem of his robe, picking at an edge just to see a stray strand he could undo, anything to mar the flawless lines, anything to make the fabric feel homier. It itched. It was warm too, which on one hand felt perfectly ordinary and comfortable, but on the other, Charles still remembered the burn which appeared on the guard's skin the moment he touched the brocade, and tried not to think what it must mean about what he was actually wearing.

"That's what I want to know. You made all the people in the chapel stop."

Charles scoffed. "That's just foolish. I have magic enough to have people who aren't looking at me yet not look at me at all, that's barely even magic."

"If no one else can do it, it's magic, and I have heard of no one who can do that. How else will you explain what happened just now?"

"Nothing happened! You're imagining things!"

"Imagining?" Erik's gaze narrowed into pinpricks, which somehow jabbed into Charles' spine though they were face to face. "How will you explain the robe you're wearing?"

A pixie-like voice in the back of Charles' mind presented him with a ready-made reply. "It seems to be a garment fashioned of orange-coloured silk, worn over a violet inner robe and a green shirt. Hardly complicated, as far as items of clothing go."

"You wear the phoenix robe and the fact that you wear it means it belongs on you, and you don't understand?" Erik rolled his eyes. "Even I can't touch it without being burned, and I'm the prince."

Charles hoped that his face expressed irritation and annoyance, but clearly to Erik it must have come across as surprise and lack of understanding, because he hastened to add, with no small amount of exasperation, "Come now, you must know the stories."

"I read fairy tales," Charles said. "They say that the rightful rulers of Salem are born of magic, as the country was founded on magic, so are they. They say that the lifeblood of the earth and the sun runs through their veins."

"Close enough." Erik held out his hand and stopped short of touching Charles' shoulder, as though he was trying to feel its warmth. "I'm magic. I feel the earth move when I walk, I feel its bones. This palace was built on a well, of sorts, a well through magic poured and whoever can dig into it can rule. I'm easily the strongest magician in the country, because of that.

"Yet I try to touch you and this happens," Erik demonstrated by licking his finger and letting it fall to Charles' shoulder. He immediately withdrew, hissing under his breath and sucking the finger back into his mouth. "You see?"

"Maybe you aren't as magical as you think you are. Logan scared you, and he'd barely magical at all."

"Why don't you try touching mine, then?" Erik proposed brightly, thrusting his whole arm forward. Charles rolled his eyes and grasped the fabric, and then let go immediately, letting out a sharp cry.

"It's cold!" His palm was red, as though he tried to lean on a hot tin roof in the height of summer. He scooted away, just a few inches at first, then more, as he began to realise just how close they'd been sitting. "Is it magic, too?"

"Clearly." Erik chewed on his lip for a longer while, before finally reaching to undo the lacing at his throat. "There," he said, slipping the robe off his shoulders and throwing it carelessly towards a chair, along with the next layer. The black shirt he wore underneath stretched across his broad shoulders, in a rather distracting fashion, made worse when he let it slide off, and pulled on something less ornate, less magical. "No harm done."

The sky framed by the window filled with a flock of fluffy white clouds, which traversed the marked distance at leisurely pace. "Why am I even here?" Charles managed, folding his arms tightly.

Erik winced as an echo of cheering and drunken singing reached them, along with the evening breeze. "It's the law. If I'm to be crowned, I need to be married, and I can only marry the person who can wear the phoenix robe."

"But that's ridiculous!"

"I can't say you aren't ridiculous, but there we go."

"Don't I get to say anything?" Charles cried passionately. "In the Upward you can't just marry someone, they have to agree! Weddings are supposed to be happy, you're supposed to laugh and dance, and—I can't believe you're not letting me say anything about it."

Erik looked away. "I rather thought you did."

"I don't understand."

"It's not—" Erik sighed and began toying with the edge of his shirt. "Look, the point of this," he said indicating his abandoned burning-cold robe, "is that we're supposed to be compatible. The phoenix robe is supposed to fit my other half. And it's not just the magic, it was supposed to be everything. We were supposed to—My parents loved each other. Very much." A dark looked passed his face, taking with it all pretence of humour, but soon dissolved in something far more child-like, far more sweet. There was even a hint of a smile. "I'm glad to see you again. I was hoping you were faring well."

Charles stared at his feet, not quite comfortable with their shapelessness. The bone had been mended sufficiently to allow him to wear boots, and the boots were a peculiar experience, for a boy used to supple leather. He wiggled his toes. Those shoes were really something; a touch impractical for moving across the Upward, as the soles were stiff, but goodness, his feet were supported and encased in softness at the same time, it was amazing. "Are we really married?"

Erik looked at the floor although probably not to marvel at Charles' comfortable shoes. "I don't know. The ceremony was performed, but I still can't touch you, nor you me. I guess it didn't work."

"Perhaps the bishop did it wrong."

"Don't be ridiculous." Erik smiled as he said that, but the smile was wistful. He sighed, opened his mouth again, closed it, then looked straight at Charles. "Why were you in the palace? Sebastian said you were leaving the palace, wearing the robe, when he found you."

Charles shrugged. "I was trying to get out."

"Yes, but why were you here in the first place? I know you weren't following me from the wall, I checked."

"Lord Trask arrested me and brought me to the tower dungeon."

Erik immediately frowned. "There are no tower dungeons in the palace."

"What do you need all the towers for, then?"

"Some of them are for guards – someone has to mind what is happening outside. Wait, did you just say Lord Trask arrested you?"

Charles nodded. "I thought it was just a misunderstanding at first, but then he had golems bring me here, and lock me in the tower. There were bones there." Not just bones, but shrivelled remains, which had no business being stored in a dungeon. Ashes belonged in the earth from which all living things grow. Charles opened his mouth to say as much, but Erik beat him to it.

"How did you get out?"

"An eagle gave me a key to the manacles," Charles said, a little puzzled when Erik began shaking his head. 

"Of course it did. And then you just walked out of there?"

"Through the window, yes."

"We must be a poorly guarded palace, then if anyone can just escape a prison cell through the window. I shudder to think what would become of our justice system when that knowledge gets out."

Further conversation had to be delayed, because just as Charles was opening his mouth to defend his story, the door in the corner was pushed open and a ruddy-brown cat, large enough to reach Charles' face if it stood on its hind legs, stepped into the room. It was a beautiful creature, although marred by a scar over its eye, and on its back there was…

"Raven!"

She leapt from the other cat's back and landed on the marble floor, bounding towards Charles with a purr already starting in her throat, but mere seconds before she could leap into his arms, Erik had caught her neck and lifted her off the floor.

"What are you doing, let her go!" Charles cried, as Raven yowled, twisting back and forth to reach Erik with her claws.

"You're wearing a robe which burns anything living at a touch; do you really want her to climb a walking flame?" Erik shot back and hissed, when Raven's claws made contact with his forearm.

"Oh," Charles said tearfully and began undoing the lacings without a care for their proper arrangements. "Just one second—" But it took longer than that. Finally he was free, however, wearing only a thin shirt, and held out his hands. Erik let go of Raven immediately, and Charles laughed when she curled in his lap. "You found me!" He had been… not worried, no. Raven could look after herself without his help, in fact he was the one who needed her help more often, except in the quest to acquire cakes, that Raven never managed to figure out for herself. So even if she'd come all this way for the sake of the cakes, she had found him, when it couldn’t have been easy.

She nuzzled his chin and let out a happy meow. Charles was so caught up in her welcome that it took him a long moment to realise both Erik and the other cat were watching them, both slightly puzzled, both radiating gentle amusement. It wasn't every day that one saw a boy and a cat wearing twin expressions, regardless of the shape of their faces.

It took Charles another moment to realise Erik's arm had been scratched bloody.

"I am so sorry!" he said, nudging Raven off his lap gently and sliding to crouch on Erik's side. "Let me help you – we should get that cleaned."

Erik shook his head, but didn't protest when Charles fetched a basin of water from the vanity, even though the red cat kept throwing him dubious looks and Raven began to sulk, which she often did when her favourite scratching spots remained untouched for too long. Both of these could wait, however. There was a small pile of handkerchiefs in the drawer directly below the basin, and a silver vase, filled to the brim with fresh water. Further investigation (or to be perfectly honest, pulling the drawer out with too much force and accidentally seeing what was deeper) revealed a jar from which the smell of salve was emanating even through a screwed-on lid. Charles carried all three to Erik, who hadn't moved from his spot by the door. 

"I am dreadfully sorry," he said, pouring the water into the basin and throwing the kerchief inside. "Raven is wary of strangers."

"You don't say?" Erik must have looked at Raven then, in a manner she found displeasing, because the next thing Charles knew he was grabbing her by the neck himself and holding her in place. "She's met me. And she's met Azazel; she was riding Azazel, so I don't think they are strangers."

He realised immediately how she must feel – Erik had come to their home, and the very next morning, when Charles left with him for the Downward and beyond, he disappeared, only to be discovered after days of arduous searching, waving at the crowds with the prince himself, and staying in the royal palace, the last place anyone could expect to find someone like him. She was well within her rights to be suspicious and mistrustful.

"No darling," he murmured kissing her head. "Erik is not to blame. I was arrested."

Raven turned her enormous eyes on him and glared. 

"No, truly. I don't quite realise why I'm here now," he told her, giving her one more kiss and returning to cleaning Erik's arm, although this time with Raven placated. "You said the robe was supposed to stop working after we were married," he said, looking up to find Erik staring at him with a kind of softness in his gaze, which made his own face heat up instantly. "Why would it stop? I don't think there was any magic in the ceremony, I would have felt it."

"It's not so much that it stops working, it's more that it's supposed to…" Erik flushed a deep red and looked away, burying his hands in Azazel's glossy coat. "We're supposed to be spouses. Lovers. And if you are that, your magic is supposed to be compatible enough that you wouldn't hurt one another with it."

"That still doesn't explain why the phoenix robe is supposed to suit me. I'm most familiar with wind and silence, not fire."

"I don't know what it is supposed to do, I only know what it does. According to the legend my robe, the dragon robe, was given to the first queen of Genosha. She was a fierce warrior and a great magician. She made a pact with the dragons when she was just a princess, and they gave her the robe which was armour and sword at once: when she donned it she became invincible and freed the land of demons; she founded Genosha and built the castle. She was a general by then, but when more people came and built the city, when other cities rose nearby, she became queen. However, the inherent magic of the land was so strong, she couldn't do it on her own, and everything she touched sooner or later burned into ruin – the legend says she became sick and sought help from the sun-bird. It told her she needed a consort who'd be strong enough to withstand the magic alongside her, who would complement the magic in her soul, and so the sun-bird gave her the robe." 

Charles listened in fascination. Erik had a gravity about him, a manner of speech that easily pulled one in, even when he related fairy-tales at their most concise. "Several of her generals tried, but it burned every one. There had even been a man who was determined enough to withstand it, regardless of consequence, but the robe killed him before her eyes."

"Who did she marry?" Charles asked breathlessly.

Erik blinked. "That's really not the point—"

"I never read that story! Is it written down somewhere?"

"It's in a book of tales, I'm sure there is a copy in the library – it's a big book in red leather. Hand-drawn, far as I recall. My mother read it to me."

"Can I see it?"

Erik smiled a little. "You are a prince now. Of course you can see it."

Charles wasn't proud of it, but the mere thought that he would be allowed free reign of a library made him quiver with excitement. He'd read books, of course – most children of the Upward knew how to read and count, and there were enough tattered books to keep the skills honed, but enough was not nearly enough where Charles was concerned. He had read all the books Upward had to offer by the time he was twelve, even those which were missing pages, whose pages had been taken by pigeons to line their nests with, and those whose lines had been washed away with the rain. 

"Who did she marry? She must have married."

"Far as I recall she refused to risk people's lives anymore, and the robe was put away, until a thief had stolen into the palace."

"It seems a little foolish, doesn't it, to have to marry anyone magical enough." Charles wrung the kerchief and dabbed at the scratches, which had, to his mortification, began to ooze blood, while he was engrossed with the story. "I mean – shouldn't a prince marry a princess or a prince?"

"It is just a legend. My parents were both royal and my father was only the third person to try the robe. My mother inherited hers, the phoenix robe, I mean, from her mother, whose consort was likewise chosen quickly, when they were both girls." Erik stared off into the window. "I've seen a few dozen people try the robe and fail, even people with extraordinary magic." Charles devoted his attention to the salve instead, to dabbing the yellowish concoction onto Erik's skin. "Which begs the question how did you acquire it? No, please don't be offended—" a faint flush blossomed across Erik's cheeks and his voice was tinged with unexpected warmth. "I'm glad it's you, but so far everyone to try it had escaped with some burns, even people I know to have extraordinary gifts."

"I just found it on a hanger in the next room. My leg was hurt, so I had to go back inside the palace, and it was just hanging there, in a study. I thought no one would pay attention to me if I walked out wearing it."

"You were lucky to get as far as you did." Erik mulled over the statement and then something must have occurred to him, because the frown on his face deepened. "You're saying the robe was on a hanger in a room by the tower? But it shouldn't – I'm certain it should be kept in the chapel, or somewhere close. Every time they got someone to try and put it on the golems would pull it out of a chest on the altar."

"I'm not stupid! I thought it was something normal, something every-day!"

"It's the golden robe! We don't exactly deck ourselves in such finery whenever we feel like taking a stroll within castle walls!"

"How was I supposed to know? It is silk and brocade, and I've seen people of the City walk around in colourful silks all the time!"

Erik might have choked on his own spit. "This is a work of art, fashioned by a dozen magicians at the peak of their careers, and you compare it to the every-day clothes of the City folk?"

"It's not like the colour orange is forbidden!"

"I can't believe you," Erik said, and true to his words, his face was entirely open and exuding disbelief.

Raven yawned and made herself comfortable in the sunbeam, where Azazel joined her after a moment of hesitation, while Charles and Erik continued to glare at one another. The discussion, if it could be termed as such, was broken up by a knock on the door, a dull, echoing sound, which indicated the presence of a golem. Erik straightened his back and yelled "enter," at which the door opened and a slender, clothed golem walked inside, bearing a heavy bottle, a tray of glasses and goblets, a vase and a tureen. Following him was a maid, who held in her hands a wide silver tray on which an astonishing variety of food had been arranged, food that Charles couldn’t even name.

The food was set on the table and the golem and the girl bowed deeply and disappeared. Charles approached the table with his heart in his mouth, but there it was, even when he blinked: the entire surface covered with edible stuff, and all of it smelled amazing enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"Is it all for us?" he asked in a hushed whisper, collapsing into a chair.

Erik folded a piece of paper, which had been delivered along with the meal and rolled his eyes. "Sebastian wishes us luck and advises to stay inside for a while. He will take care of the appropriate tithes and feasts for the peas—for the citizens, but in the evening we will need to make an appearance." He let it fall onto the table and reached for the bottle. "At least we have time to work it out."

Charles nodded, barely conscious of whatever it was being said. The broth in the tureen had some sort of soggy bread in it, and while the sogginess he was ambivalent about, it was delicious and spicy. Then there was a whole roast chicken, with vegetables on the side, all glazed with honey, small red berries, still on their stems, shining like glass beads in the sun. Erik had placed a goblet filled with thick wine before him, and occasionally Charles would take a sip or even a gulp, when a bite proved too difficult to swallow, and goodness, there were so many things to taste!

"You know, you probably shouldn't eat this much," Erik said, halfway through the meal. Charles had, by that time, consumed a whole bowl of broth and was stuffing himself on the cold meats, of which the variety ranged from small bird which could only be eaten in one bite (Raven was particularly delighted at those), to thin slices of some larger animal, a cow or a pig, perhaps. In between bites he picked three or four of the berries, which had turned out to be tiny bubbles of pure sugar, glazed and put together to resemble berries. The very concept left him breathless and giddy.

"Why?"

"You'll make yourself sick. My tutor told me some soldiers would make themselves sick, coming home after long campaigns, because they weren't used to eating the normal food."

Charles let the chicken leg he was nibbling at fall to his plate. "I didn't realise you could get sick from food." If he were to be completely honest, the concept was laughable. How could one get sick from food? Food kept you warm, kept you alive. 

"I'm told you've been throwing up practically every day."

"I've also been locked up in here," Charles countered, sparing a moment to wonder who exactly had informed Erik of the fact.

"I don't think that would be enough to make you vomit," Erik considered his plate. "You know there is more than enough food here, right? If you don't finish it now, we can ask for more in an hour or so."

"This is the palace, I would assume you stock up on food." If there was one thing Charles had known about palaces and princes and suchlike, it was that they didn't so much eat as they feasted. He was just now learning that his idea of a feast was woefully inadequate, and that the food often was made so it didn't look like food at all. Most importantly, there was so much of it that the remains could be stored and eaten for days afterwards, but there was never an opportunity, because they would bring more food, every day, and it would be freshly prepared and delicious.

He was also a little queasy right now.

"I'll have the kitchens make lighter stuff for you. It should make you feel better." Erik reached out and took the chicken leg out of Charles' hands, substituting a fresh goblet of wine.

It wasn't easy to stop eating, but his stomach was feeling pretty full, so Charles downed the goblet of wine and sighed. Then hiccoughed. Then covered his mouth with his hand and stared the goblet in question, even as its interior began to swim before his eyes.

"I don't feel well," he managed, before a sudden lurch in his stomach forced him into the bathroom.

His head was spinning and overall he would have been so much happier if his stomach had settled. Erik, thankfully, came to the rescue with a glass of water and a piece of candy that seemed to have been carved out of ice, after which Charles found himself encased in something infinitely warm and fluffy, with Raven curled on his side. 

"I told you this would happen," Erik said, stroking his hair, and Charles sighed, preparing to argue otherwise, but then let the softness and the gentle swaying of the floor lull him into a deep sleep.

*****

He was woken by a raised voice. Erik's, he realised through the confusion of slipping through the cracks of dreams and into the real world. Erik was yelling at someone.

The fragment of the sky he could see through the window was a deep, vibrant blue, which meant the sunset had come and gone, and wasn't there something about this evening that Charles was supposed to remember?

"My dear boy," said another voice, the one which did not belong to Erik. "Do I really have to explain how many traditions you violated by spiriting the boy away so soon after the wedding? Any other couple would have been parading before the crowds until they dropped of exhaustion. I merely ask that you take a nice, leisurely stroll through the City, possibly as far as the Downward, considering where the boy hails from."

"He can barely stand, Sebastian."

"You rascal, you," Sebastian said. The words were accompanied by a muffled slap, as though a clothed part of a body was struck with an open palm. "The night couldn't come soon enough, could it?"

"He got drunk on the wine and threw up the dinner." Erik's voice was flat and unamused. "Strangely, I do not find that at all appealing."

"I simply cannot imagine why."

Charles let his eyes flutter open and sat up slowly. His head was hurting and his stomach hadn't yet settled, but he was reasonably confident he could move, if prompted. Maybe even stand up. He would require the floor to cease undulating under his feet, lest he find himself intimately acquainted with the exquisite carpets, but he could stand.

"Ah, good evening, Charles," said the general, offering a smile and a courteous bow. "I hear you haven't been feeling well."

"Thank you, but I'm well now."

"Good, good. We need you to get on your feet immediately. We can hardly keep the new prince contained, after all, the people will rebel," the general said, clapping his hands to summon the servants. "I do wish you haven't slept, but there is no time to make you presentable. Do something with his hair, would you?" he asked of the serving girl. "We have an hour before the fireworks begin." 

*****

Charles recalled that instant a few hours later, when, after the customary chariot-ride through the streets lit with magical lanterns, and disturbed only by the frequent explosion of fireworks against the darkened sky, he stumbled back into the bedroom he was to share with Erik (he had been escorted by a golem, which hadn't left his side for an instant), and found the general waiting there, with a mahogany box in his lap. 

"Sit down, please," he said indicating the bed. 

Charles sat down, filled with unexpected dread. A fraction of comfort was the golden robe, still wrapped around his torso, which he was beginning to believe no one but him could touch – it had seemed far-fetched at first, but it did seem like everyone he met shied away from physical contact, and the general was no different. He knelt at the foot of the bed and slid Charles' right boot off his foot. 

"It's healing well, I presume?"

"I can't complain. I can almost walk normally." Charles wiggled his toes and tried to smile. He wished Erik were here. He could walk normally, but after the ride, during which he'd been required to stand all the way through, the almost became far more pronounced than the walk, and when the time came to exit the chariot he found he had no objections to collapsing into a waiting golem's arms in exhaustion.

"Good." The general opened the case he'd brought and held up a silver hoop. It broke in his hand into two matching halves, which he then fitted around Charles' throbbing ankle, where they grew together, forming a seamless silver band. "This is mere precaution, little bird," General Shaw said. "We wouldn't want you fleeing the nest prematurely, if you pardon the phrasing. This should, if instructions were precise and craftsmanship accurate, heat up the further you are from the palace, and by the time you reach City wall should cause acute burning sensation. I would therefore advise against taking unscheduled excursions."

Strange, how he was able to ignore the cold facts for as long as he had. Charles stared at the handsome silver band circling his ankle and could stop the cold shiver which ran down his spine.

"Where is Erik?" he asked, fisting his hands in the silk sheets.

"His Royal Highness' presence was requested at the ministerial assembly." The General rose from his knees and patted Charles on the head. "He is to be crowned soon, and take on the duties hitherto fulfilled by a regent."

"You are regent," Charles said flatly. "I've been reliably informed it's not easy to let go of a position of power. General. Sir."

The general laughed. "My name is Sebastian, little bird. As for giving up power, let's have this conversation again in, oh, three months, shall we? You will be expected to step up and share the burden of ruling the country, so don't think of yourself as being locked in a golden cage." Sebastian, Charles supposed, laughed again, loudly and boisterously. "Think of it as having a heavy, golden plough fastened to your neck, with an angry, armed guard urging you on with a whip."

"It doesn't seem funny," Charles said. Perhaps there was a task whose importance he had yet to grasp, but ploughs where the stuff of legend where he came from, but based on description gold wasn't suited for the job.

"It's a shame; I did think it was funny. But, as far as consolation goes…" Sebastian closed the lid of the box and looked about, for anything he might have dropped before speaking again. "In so far as one can trust the palace records, there had never been a royal couple who felt their life ruined by the royal marriage. I distantly remember Erik's grandmother and her consort as being very happy together, and very much in love. Erik's parents could hardly avert their eyes from each other. Consider this a consolation: as far as having your spouse chosen for you, the choice made by a burning robe, crafted by unknown tailors but tested by time, is a sound one."

Charles averted his gaze. "I'd much rather have chosen my own spouse, thank you."

"Strangely enough," Sebastian said, with one of his hands on the doorknob, "I had thought you did. I don't expect you invite just any stranger into your hammock in the Upward."

Charles could do little but stare in astonishment. "How did you—"

"Was it meant to stay a secret? Oh dear. I will have to discipline my sources in the Downward; I like to be kept abreast of the local customs. With the porous walls and open bathing spaces I assumed this wasn't a prudish community."

"Did Erik tell you?"

"Erik would no sooner tell me about people he likes than he would tell me my hair was on fire. He takes after his mother that way. Edie had never liked me much, personally, yet I was the one to whom she bequeathed Erik's care on her deathbed, and I like to think I managed to keep the boy happy, despite his frequent assertions to the contrary. Not that he is without reason, when it comes to keeping mum, mind; I am a huge gossip." Sebastian grinned, as though that was a point of particular pride, and departed, leaving behind a roomful of terror, neatly wound up in one boy.

There was still the chance, Charles thought without much hope, as he got up and staggered to the vanity to wash his face, that he would go to sleep and wake up in his hammock, from which the palace would be a distant landmark, not an actual place. The likelihood of this, much preferred, outcome, he was unfortunately aware, was nil. There was a faint gloss present in all of his dreams that made them easily distinguishable from reality, and thus he could establish this as being his reality with confidence he didn't quite feel on all other accounts. He really wished Erik was here now, even if they still needed to have a chat about how very unkind it was to mention anything about the night in the Upward to the general. He shouldn't have.

Charles shed the robe and crawled into the bed, pulling sheets over his head. They were warm, to his surprise – why would they be warm, when he vacated the bed hours ago, and this was a prince's bedroom, thus unlikely to be used by anyone else. It was terribly nice, slipping into a warm nest like this, after a day of upheaval – he felt as though he was half-asleep already – but he missed the comfort of his usual hammock and the stars which shone on him every night.

Raven had been gone when they returned from the ride, as was Azazel, which wasn't all that surprising. The cats had their own ways, and Charles would be hard-pressed to force Raven to stay with him, if he tried. She'd come back eventually, he told himself. She always came back, to nose at his cheek and cheer him up.

Charles curled up and closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. There were hundreds of thoughts littering his mind, each more outlandish than the last, and each individual idea was more than enough to keep him occupied, he was therefore awake when someone opened and closed the door, and soundlessly slipped into the bed beside him, giving out the faint aroma of peppermint. Charles smiled, despite himself. Erik was fond of peppermint – his entire closet boasted a cloud of the smell, set to attack anyone incautious enough to attempt to search it for exits. 

"I'm not really angry at you," Charles said, turning and pulling the sheet down at the same time, but it wasn't Erik who'd climbed onto his bed, and it wasn't Erik who was staring down at him with glowing, inhuman eyes, barely visible through a purple veil.


	4. the eagle

Charles opened his mouth to scream, but instead found it stuffed with a ball of cotton of peculiar fragrance. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it, but the golem had moved swiftly from his side to kneeling astride him. Its weight would be enough to keep a grown man pinioned, let alone a skinny boy whose strength was further diminished by the strange substance in which the cotton had been soaked. Charles breathed in – of course he had, and he found the presence of mind to call on the magic, but the silence, which ought to be his ally, which ought to come at his call and forge for him a space to evade capture, betrayed him: its welcoming solace was widening before his eyes and swallowing him whole.

When he opened his eyes again, it wasn't to muted reds and purples of Erik's bedroom, but a sandy-coloured brick, bleached bones and the grey of steal on his wrists. 

Oh, trouble, Charles thought, still a little dazed from the poison. The golem who'd taken him was standing in the corner. Its vigil was constant, much like that of a bird of prey, fixated on its hapless meal.

"You really, really should have taken the window," Lord Trask said, ambling into Charles' view with both his hands clasped behind his back. "How is that you caused me so much trouble?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir." Charles swallowed nervously, testing the strength of the restraints. "I was trying to leave without a fuss."

Lord Trask let out a snort. "Well, I can't expect you to appreciate the effort it takes to put together a spell, especially a spell of such magnitude and complexity, a spell which needs to be woven into an ancient object of immeasurable power. The very idea must be quite lost on you." 

"They don't teach magic in the Upward," Charles admitted readily. You either had it or you didn't; there was no training, no instruction, but what your gut and the magic itself told you. The most you could hope for was a kind word from the people who had more experience, but even then, it was difficult. For the untrained the magic took form of a particular spell, a particular state of mind, one that they alone could achieve, rendering instruction vague, at best.

"They wouldn't, no." Lord Trask observed him for a long moment. "Did you know, I had been watching you for a while now. Someone like you stands out, even in the slums of the Upward. You could ask anyone there, anyone at all, and they all remember the boy with the blue eyes. Even to the mundane peasants you stand out, let alone anyone with actual magical ability."

Charles paused in his attempts to will the manacles to snap open to stare at Lord Trask in surprise. "That sounds far-fetched. I'm mostly a thief, if everyone remembered me, I would have been in trouble."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they would merely let their gaze slide right past you taking their things, and only recall the details which made you stand out?" Lord Trask toyed with a ring on his finger, a heavy gold thing, which Charles couldn't help but simultaneously assess for value and look away, because parts of it were true, and he was a well-known thief, which sometimes did make people nervous, if they caught him staring at their valuables. Lord Trask noticed, most definitely. He brought the ring closer to Charles' eyes, enough to fully show it off. "Does it strike your fancy? No, I don't mind you looking," he added quickly. "You won't be escaping this time."

Not when the windows were barred and the golem permanently stationed in the corner, to watch him, Charles thought. "Erik will look for me."

"On one hand yes, on the other, a terrified child of the Upward, kidnapped from his element and locked in the golden cage, suddenly fleeing for his home is also a valid theory. I imagine the prince won't take much convincing. I don't have to tell you how easy it is to not find someone in the Upward."

"I promised Erik I wouldn't run," Charles said with far more confidence than he felt. Blast his mediocre affinity for untruths. He had made no promises, quite the opposite, in fact. If it weren't for the memory of Erik's hopeful smile he would have ran as soon as the horse master left them alone for a moment, while he was tending to the chariot.

"Again, what does your promise mean, boy?" Lord Trask continued toying with his ring, hardly bothering to look at Charles, or at the golem in the corner.

"I keep my promises."

"Perhaps you do. Perhaps it won't matter much."

Lord Trask ascended the stairs which would take outside. Charles tried to breathe, but his chest seemed to struggle with letting the air pass through his lungs, and the best he could do was a shallow set of pants.

The boards nailed to the window made it difficult to gauge the time, but Charles had a feeling it was close to an hour before Lord Trask appeared again, holding in his hands the golden robe. "It will be problematic, explaining you away," he said, "but it can be done. Hopefully it won't even matter, if I'm right about you. I usually am right."

Charles meanwhile was staring at him, open-mouthed. "You're holding the robe. You—Erik said no one can touch it!"

"Erik could have been wrong."

"He said no one could touch it! He said nothing living could…"

Lord Trask stared at him impassively for a long moment and his fingers clenched in the fabric. "No. Nothing living." He gestured and the golem came forward, with a key in its hand, to unlock the manacles which bound Charles' wrists to the wall. "I never did figure out how you got out of the shackles. I made them – no spell should be able to turn the lock."

For one breathless moment Charles found himself free. He could run, he thought, and the idea nearly struck him down. Golems weren't fast and Lord Trask was a dwarf, Charles could outrun him easily. If he could only get to the door—

But the door was locked, probably, surely his lordship would have locked it behind him, his mind kept reminding him and now the golem's hand was wrapping around his arm. 

"You will put this on," Lord Trask said. "And then you will die. I wish I could tell you it is an honour, your highness, for you to die in the phoenix robe, alas, it is an honour many street rats had achieved before you."

"The sun-birds are revived in fire," Charles said breathlessly, staring at the pile of kindling in the corner, not far from where the shadows hid the desiccated corpse from view, making no move to take the robe out of the lord's hands. "All the books said so."

"I only discuss literature with my peers, your highness," Lord Trask said. "And by an extraordinary stroke of luck you have now become a prince, thus not my peer at all. It's a peculiar world we live in, isn't it. Put the robe on."

"No."

"You won't go far, questioning me."

Charles straightened his back. "I won't put it on. Why should I?"

Lord Trask let out a long, hissing sigh. "I was a little pleased when you escaped. It gave your leg a chance to heal. It's good – the healthier you are, the better, but it is far from what I look for. I picked you years in advance. That's how much you stood out. Normally the magically gifted peasants are brought to my attention when they reach the apogee of their powers. You I noticed when you still hobbled while you walked and you are going to be useful to me, whether you are in tremendous pain or not. If your excellent reading skills taught you to comprehend percentages, what I need out of you is impacted by your physical health in about five percent capacity. The other ninety-five are more than worth the trouble of torturing you horribly beforehand."

Charles let out a started laugh, for no other reason that the pressure in his chest forced something out, and a laugh was better than a sob. He reached for the robe and thought, once more, about Erik. He thought about the day he was arrested, as he pulled the robe onto his naked skin, piece by piece, as he thought about the golems which had carried him to the palace. They were only clay, he thought, fastening the belt.

Nothing living, Erik had said, and so Charles let his eyes flutter closed and he searched for the silence and wind. Even in the most crowded markets there was silence, and in the most walled rooms there was wind, so long as he drew breath. They came, as though waiting for his call, and in a flash he cocooned himself in them. He heard the golem take a step back, and Lord Trask let out a scream.

Charles didn't wait for confirmation. His arm was free, that was all he needed. In a flash he turned and ran for the door, finding it mercifully unlocked. The corridor beyond was barren, but there was a magically lit torch on the wall, which he jammed into the door handle, so that a fraction of the blackened wood would hinge on stone. The passage seemed to be about the length of a palace room, and at its end there was a door, but below its rusted handle there was a newly oiled keyhole, and the door wouldn't budge, no matter how hard Charles pushed against it. 

This was worse than the cell. He fell back, hitting the wall opposite with a dull thud. The corridor was narrow, so narrow than the most common golems couldn't have fit—

Wait, Charles thought. The cell had only one door, and I have been brought there by golems. They didn't struggle. There had to be another way out. Although his heart was hammering no less loudly than the golem's fists against the prison door, Charles retreated to it and set to observing the walls. It took a precious few seconds, but at long last he saw: there was a section of the wall which was a slightly different colour than the rest. Charles threw himself at it and it gave way quite easily, letting him stumble straight onto a damp staircase. The torches in the corridor dispelled the darkness' hold on the first steps only, while the rest disappeared into oily emptiness below. Charles drew a breath. The staircase was narrow, and it was deep. The golems felt no weariness, but Charles remembered that the steady rhythm of their footsteps nearly sent him into sleep. 

But there was no other way. He righted the wall back into its original position, and started to pick his way through the darkness, with both hands held in front of his face, to prevent a collision. He could do little but hope the stairs were clean of debris, although if this passage was used by golems, he may well crack his skull open on protruding stones. Golems cared for neither night nor day.

Whatever luck he had, clung to him through the long, spiralling walk, which seemed all the longer with no goal in sight, and when he finally reached the bottom – which was to say, his toes could find no more steps to descend, the air became lighter, even if the darkness remained. He kept his arms outstretched and could feel a wall on either side, which sometimes split to allow for more dank corridors. He could get lost in here, he thought in panic. He could get lost and die in the narrow mazes beneath the palace, where there was no light and no hope of rescue.

Then again, he might stumble on an exit yet. It took days to die of thirst, and this was a maze – golems would always find their way, eventually, but even golems couldn't locate a person at will, nor, as far as Charles knew, could follow a scent. He marched on, keeping one hand on the wall, and taking no turns unless forced to by a dead end. There was no way of keeping track of minutes as they trickled past. He tried to count the steps, at first, but after a hundred he thought he might have been mistaken, by three hundred and seven he was sure he made several mistakes, and by the thousandth he was quite certain he was entirely off the mark.

It was hard to imagine darkness until one experience it, truly. Charles smiled to himself, and tried to hold on to the smile. He didn't like darkness all that much and while the smiling kept him going for another thousand steps, it was not enough, not nearly enough. He stopped, sliding to the floor by a wall, telling himself he needed a moment to breathe, to rest, even though he was not telling himself the truth. He was fine. The day had been long, and stressful, but he'd eaten well and the little rest he had gave him plenty of strength. Even his leg was holding up well enough. He could walk for miles without losing his breath, out underneath the stars, he could climb to the very top of the Upward and back again twice over, before exhaustion. This darkness threatened to seep the breath from his lips, however, and that he could not abide. 

Then, somewhere far in the dark behind him, he heard a voice. 

"Find him!" the voice was saying, with not a small amount of anger. "Find him and bring him to me."

Lord Trask. The door must have given way. Charles shot to his feet and ran, a poor choice when he couldn't see past the tip of his nose and eventually, inevitably, he tripped and fell, skidding into a wall of igneous rock. The maze already echoed with the footsteps of golems; it was only a matter of time.

Then, in the stilted, slightly damp darkness, there was a breath of wind. Charles raised his head and stared at a small speck of light, coming from a lantern held in an eagle's beak. 

"It's you," he whispered, reaching out for the lamp. "You brought me the key."

The eagle spread its wings and released the light into Charles' waiting palm. It wasn't much; just a spark of yellow fire in a glass bubble, but it illuminated the ground far enough to plan the next step. "Where do I go?" Charles asked, but the eagle took off and not down the corridor they were in, either. It took to the sky, metaphorically speaking, even though this was a cavern, this was so far from the open skies, only Hell could possibly be further.

Somewhere, not far from Charles was sitting, the golems were walking. Their steps were unhurried, but certain, and they weren't far.

"The echo and the wind," Charles muttered, grabbed the handle of the lamp in his teeth and started running his palms over the smooth walls. They were black it turned out now – a deep black of midnight, without the occasional flash of a star-like gem. Hardly anything to grasp. But then Charles was both determined and scared out of his mind. The rock had been melted at one time, but it was not uniform and the other wall was just close enough to help out, and within minutes Charles was balancing on top of the wall, with inky blackness surrounding him at all sides, but for the bubble of light.

The eagle circled him once and took off, sliding through the darkness with no hesitation, although it would occasionally double back when it exited Charles' hearing range. Up above the maze, he could see it was far less orderly than he'd assumed – the corridors seemed to be carved by some kind of natural force rather than people, saving maybe a few passages which bore marks of tools. Was this a mine? Charles wondered, taking a deep breath and leaping across a corridor to land unsteadily on the wall opposite. It could be a mine. There were gems in the walls, after all.

A touch of feather brushed by his ear, guiding the turn of his head, and Charles followed, listening intently for two things now, the golem's footsteps and the eagle's wings. To his great relief the latter was leading him further from the former, although it hadn't been apparent at once, since the winding passages sent the golems here and there, while the eagle took the shortest path and Charles was able to follow him more or less directly.

He had ceased counting, because what use was counting steps when he had to leap and fall, at least once, so he couldn't gauge the distance any more than he could gauge time. He was growing restless and the hunger began to haunt him – he had eaten that day, but he might have also thrown up and what rest the poison granted hadn't been nearly enough – and with them both the despair was sure to begin sneaking its tendrils through his mind. Just as he thought the memories of sunlight and freedom were a distant, unrecoverable memory, he saw a wall of solid rock rising before him, greater than the walls of the maze and smoother than glass. 

The eagle brushed by his face again and dove into a rectangular well of darkness near its base, disappearing entirely. The edges of the well were even; this was a passage. This was the way out. Charles slid down the wall and began to run, ignoring the twinge in his damaged leg. It had served him through the maze, and served him well; it wouldn't fail now. It couldn't.

Somewhere before him there was a shrill cry, leading upwards, and Charles drew to a halt, advancing with the lamp held high. The corridor branched out, and the cry had come from the left, where it opened into a round cave, which tapered into a winding shaft, at whose end there was a speck of light, occasionally hidden from view by the wings of the eagle.

Luckily the robe had enough tassels to affix the lamp to it. Climbing a wall was one thing; ascending a good hundred feet – if not more – with a lamp held between his teeth would have been difficult. Charles climbed the rock, whose smooth, inky surface soon gave way to something more familiar, brighter and rougher, much like the stones of which the palace was built. With the exit in sigh, though there was no open sky to give him hope, Charles found his spirits boosted nonetheless. He pushed through the final ring of brick, and it was brick not pristine rock, and dislodged the crate which guarded the entrance. The eagle gave a sharp cry at that and rushed between him and his escape, shooting out into the – of this Charles was suddenly sure – the night-air of the open space.

He was outside! At long last he was outside.

He hauled himself out of the hole and lied at its edge, breathing deeply and staring at the stars overhead. 

"Impressive climbing skills," the general said. 

Charles sat up straight. He was in a deserted courtyard, narrow and surrounded at all sides by stairs and carved walls. There was only one door there, gnawed on by the centuries, and enough dust to indicate the courtyard was seldom used, if at all. Yet the General was seated beside him, on a block of stone which supported the wall, with the great eagle perched on his shoulder. 

"… but then I expected no less. It behoves a prince to save himself, when the occasion calls for it, and you have performed admirably. Congratulations."

"Does it count as saving myself when the eagle brought me everything, from keys to guidance?"

"I can't be held responsible if the fauna decides to offer the prince its assistance," the General said haughtily, though not before winking at Charles. He let out an indignant squawk a moment later, when the eagle nipped his ear. "You have just lost yourself a treat."

"Lord Trask could touch the robe," Charles said urgently. "I saw him hold it in his hands and he wasn't burned."

"Not unexpected, truly. He's been dead for oh, twenty years now."

Charles closed his eyes and counted to ten. "I don't believe you."

In response the General reached out and touched his sleeve, until his palm began to redden and blister. He showed it to Charles with a rueful smile. "See? No one, neither human nor beast, can touch it while it lives. Lord Trask doesn't seem like a tree, we must therefore seek our explanation elsewhere. He walks and talks and had been born, or at least I had been assured of the fact by reliable midwives, therefore he must be human. Yet ancient magic, to which all humans must bow, fails to apply, therefore he must not be a human."

Charles scooted away from the well and, with some effort, pushed the crate back to cover it. "What is he, then?" 

The general nudged the eagle onto his palm, whispering a few words at it, and launched it into the air. The bird let out an amusing squawk and took off, spiralling off into the sky.

"A golem, far as I'm aware," the man said.

"He can't be a golem, he talks!"

"Definitions are tricky, tricky business. Golems are hardly my area of expertise, but, as far as I recall, the idea stems from the legends of man's creation: when the first humans were made, they were made out of true clay, and then animated into life with fire. True fire, the kind we don't have at our disposal. We later learned how to do the same with mundane clay and mundane fire, giving us golems. Useful, but ultimately walking statues. Lord Trask had managed to get himself delivered to death's doorstep in an accident, but as he was about to be dragged in he managed to twist the fire into animating his dying flesh as if it was clay. Very interesting and ingenious, I don't mind telling you. Shame about the inherent evil of such practices, but what can you do?" The general sighed deeply and spread his hands.

"Where is Erik?" Charles asked, untangling the lamp from his robe. "Is he alright?"

"If I know Erik, and I do, he's probably terrorising the guards and golems alike for losing you."

"How can you terrorise golems?"

"Erik is quite ingenious and impulsive, both of which feed into the other with mixed results. For instance, did you wonder what, precisely, drove him to escape the palace confines, in search of adventure?"

Charles shook his head. The general had a manner of speaking, which, although not half as compelling as Erik's was, won him both attention and the fascination of his audience, even if outrage was not far behind. 

"I may have provided him with a list of princesses he was to consider for his brides, at the top of which there was a young lady I know detested."

"I thought the robe was supposed to choose the prince's spouse," Charles said, smiling despite himself.

"Yes, naturally, but for there to be a trial there have to be candidates." General Shaw offered Charles a blinding grin. His voice and manner became softer then. "He wasn't happy about finding you gone, I don't mind telling you. Not happy in the slightest. Which actually reminds me, we need to bring him along, else he will upset a great deal many people, and we wouldn't want that. Upset staff is a very inefficient staff."

"I don't like this," Charles said. "I don't like being watched all the time."

"Erik will be devastated when you leave him."

"That's not fair."

"Fairness is for peasants. In my world, it is victory that counts." The general offered Charles a sunny smile, of which he had an inexhaustible supply. "He really likes you, and the robe proves conclusively that you are fit to be his spouse. Why fight destiny?"

"I don't like closed spaces."

"We will move you to the royal suite after the coronation. It has a large balcony."

"Charles!" Erik shot out of the door, frazzled and in a state of agitation far beyond what he exhibited when he almost got killed at the tavern. He ran down the stairs, skidding down the steps and very nearly collapsed on the bottom, before falling to his knees beside Charles, with his hands hovering inches away from the phoenix robe. "Are you well?" he asked, still on the verge of touching Charles despite the threat of severe burns. "I thought – I thought something must have happened to you."

"Yes, luckily our little bird is an excellent climber and made it out of the well without hardship."

It was as though Erik only now noticed where he was, and only now noticed the crate covering the way into the labyrinth. "He was—Charles, you were the in the well? What the hell?"

"I was just getting out of the maze, and it seemed like the only way out."

"The maze?" Erik had an appropriately horrified look on his face. "Why would you be in the maze? It's off limits for a reason, people have died trying to get through it! Hell, it's probably filled with bones!"

"There is a passage through. When I was first brought to the palace, the golems went through the maze."

"Why would they go through the maze?" Erik asked, turning to face the general. "This makes no sense. There is no straight way through, it goes in circles."

"The obvious answer is: to avoid being seen," the general told him. "Really, Erik. This is a fairly basic conclusion."

"Lord Trask said he had Charles arrested for stealing, why would he drag him in through the maze instead of going through the main gates? The entrance to the dungeons is just to the right of the courtyard."

"I wasn't arrested for stealing! At least not at the moment."

"Why were you arrested?" Erik turned to Charles and once more aborted a movement which would lead them to touch. "I thought I asked, but you never told me."

"I might have been sitting on the City wall."

"I left you at the City wall," Erik said. "How is that a crime? Were you arrested where I left you?"

"Yes, pretty much. It is not a crime?"

"Not to my knowledge, and why would it be a crime, anyway? It is a wall; the gates to the City are open all the time!"

"They are guarded though! Why would you guard the gates and not make crossing the wall at will free?"

"We do not penalise people for moving as they like, the City should be accessible to everyone! The guards help to enforce order at the passages. They don't have leave to stop anyone," Erik said, frowning.

"Well, it's not like I would have been there if I didn't need to see you home!"

"I could have found my own way back, thank you. The palace is not hard to miss, and if I got lost I could have knocked on any door in the City and ask for directions, in case I missed the giant palace right in the middle. I could have walked from the Upward, it's not like the direction isn't blindingly obvious."

Charles flushed a dark red. "I wanted to make sure you were alright, that's all."

Erik faltered and the shade of his skin matched Charles' blush. "I was just saying, I could have found my own way back, that's all."

"I was trying to be polite." The fact that the excursion allowed him more time with Erik was irrelevant, and highly uncomfortable.

"I know, I'm sorry." Erik stared at the dust at his feet. "I had a great time with you. In the Upward, I mean. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should have told you before."

"I liked having you there, too," Charles told the ground. "You climb well. For someone from the City, I mean."

For a moment there was utter silence, but for the noise two people breathing make. It seemed not at all strange, until Charles raised his head sharply and said, "Where is the general?" in a hushed whisper. 

"He was here a moment ago."

"There is truly no limit to trouble you intend to cause, is there," Lord Trask said. He was hidden in the shadows of the columns, and with him were seven golems bearing his colours.

"How dare you," Erik began, frowning. "What is going on?"

It may have been his imagination, but Charles was sure Lord Trask hesitated for a second. His gaze fell on Erik and a shadow of doubt crossed his face, even as he raised his hand to stop one of his golems from moving forward, but it was a hesitation which lasted only for a moment. He stepped out of the shadow, and Charles took a step back in fright when his face reached the circle of light. Lord Trask took one more step forward, to where the light of the lanterns could envelop him fully, and Charles trembled. He saw the deep gouges clearly then; cracks which marred his skin, revealing desiccated flesh underneath. It was no longer a human face, though it moved when he spoke; the eyes were sunken in the skull, gleaming with a strange half-light, as though lit from within.

"Why does this shock you?" Trask asked, sliding his fingers down his face. His fingers paused in the deep shadows across his cheekbones and lips, the jagged edges parting flesh there. "It is your doing."

"You did this?" Erik asked, raising a brow.

"I didn't think this would happen, I was just trying to get away." Charles felt his leg tremble. Part of it was exhaustion, and part the very recent memory of having it broken, by the very same golem which was now staring at him dispassionately over Lord Trask's head.

"I told you it's not use. I will find you."

"Hold it," Erik said firmly. "I don't like what you're saying."

"Luckily enough, you don't need to, your highness." 

"All due respect, Lord Trask, but I will not take insolence from you. Charles is a prince; you will show him respect."

"I believe the laws state that he only becomes the prince once your marriage is consummated, so I owe him very little respect, presently." Behind his back the golems began fanning out, taking up positions around the courtyard, blocking all possible exits. Some of them were carrying wood. "You marriage is still just a puppet show, which I know because of the burn on your finger. Have you been incautiously helping him out of his robe, little prince?"

"You will show me respect," Erik drew himself to his full height, and though he probably had some height to gain, and was hardly a giant, he cut a fearsome figure in his black-and-red robe, which seemed to glow with the undying fire of the embers on the bottom of a fireplace. His handsome face was shadowed and set, and were it not for the fact Charles felt the brush of fingertips against his skin, he would have been frightened himself.

"I wish I could," Lord Trask said a little dreamily, "but I fear respect is beyond me. Your little street rat hurt me badly. I'm dying."

"General Shaw said you'd been dead for twenty years now," Charles said and was rewarded with Lord Trask starting in surprise. "He said you are a golem."

"He's what—How can that be possible?" Erik had turned to Charles, keeping one eye on the golems which had come to surround them. "But he's speaking to us!"

"Ah, the general. Interesting man, truly."

Lord Trask was still staring at them while the golem's hands closed around Charles' upper arms, at which point he raised a hand and cast a handful of foul-smelling dust into Erik's face, which caused Erik to crumple to his knees in the golem's grip, confusion and surprise plain on his face.

"Wait," Charles cried. "You can't! You want me, don't you? Let Erik go."

"Shut up, Charles." Erik's speech was slurred and uncomfortable, as though he had to speak around a bite of food too large to swallow.

"He said he was looking for me, he said he was watching me! I don’t want him to hurt you."

"As sweet as you boys are, you've given me no choice whatsoever. I needed you to feed the spell which allows me to live, and I still do, but now, thanks to you, I need more to restore the flesh I have to animate. In a way it is fortunate. I would have needed a dozen children to accomplish what I have you two for."

Something inside Charles had frozen. He exchanged a quick, panicked look with Erik, and found him equally shocked, although owing to the powder his face was only now contorting into the surprised expression. "He's the prince, everyone will miss him!" Charles felt his fists clench. "Everyone will look for him!"

The golem holding Charles forced him to the ground, into the pile of kindling the others assembled, and Erik alongside him.

"It is kind of you, to be concerned with my well-being." Lord Trask approached, holding a lit candle, whose green, static flame cast ugly shadows onto his face. "But rest assured, I will have little trouble explaining his disappearance away. Hasn't he run once already?"

Erik looked at him, narrowing his eyes with difficulty. "I wasn't gone for more than a day, and there was quite the uproar. They will search for me."

"Ah, your highness. How many men had disappeared into the Upward, never to return? Surely, if your little lover knows it well enough, you would be assumed to have hidden away from your responsibilities, with his help."

"No one will believe you," Erik said with confidence, somewhat belied by a faint tremor in his voice and the slurred way in which the words were delivered. 

"Then I will think of some other lie," Lord Trask said and touched the candle to the kindling. 

Immediately the makeshift pyre was engulfed in green flames, which clambered up their limbs, consuming the kindling as though it was hay, and not dying when the fuel was gone, but sticking to the robes they were wearing, sinking towards their skin. The heat made Charles' eyes water and he clenched them shut, finding Erik's hand among the piles of wood, entwining their fingers and holding on, despite the pain, because the fire wasn't something he could fight, not when all the magic he had was that of the silence and wind. 

Unless—

The phoenix was a creature of fire, and even if the stories were only stories, the robe was magic, and it burned whomever it touched, so the robe must have had fire in it. Charles grasped Erik's hand tighter and said, "You didn't say we would have to walk through any fires."

"I'm sorry about that." The flames persisted, though there was very little wood for them to devour, encircling them in a ring of green, first, followed by a circle of hunched golems, with lord Trask in position just behind them. 

"Feed the fire," he commanded coolly, and the two remaining golems began piling up the splintered benches and tables, forcing Charles and Erik into a circle barely wide enough to contain them. Quite without thinking Charles wrapped his arms around Erik, burying his face in Erik's shoulder, breathing in the aroma of cinnamon and cold steel, forcing it to the forefront of his mind, and then, to his astonishment, he felt the warmth of the fire.

It was warmth, not heat, he thought in a daze, as the flames enveloped them both.


	5. the wedding

In his mind there was the silence and the wind, but when he closed his eyes and inhaled he could also feel the fire like a tangible presence. It danced across his consciousness, alighting on every notion of magic he held and burning it to the ground, setting off sparks which travelled throughout his veins. Dimly he could hear Erik whisper, then shout, in his ear, but there was nothing he could hold on to, nothing that was real, other than the golden-red fire which surrounded them.

The golems had taken a step back and, as far as it was possible to determine the mind-set of a clay puppet, Charles thought there was something in them much like awe. Lord Trask, on the other hand, was staring at the great bonfire before him with fright and greed, holding out his hands, as though yearning to capture its heat for himself. It would not come at his command, however; the sickly-green flames which he ignited were gone, replaced by something fiercer, brighter. Clay had no concern for heat, but lord Trask was flesh and blood, even if it was something else that kept him alive, and the fire, which had now engulfed the entire courtyard, seared him to the bone, cracking his skin until he crumbled to the cobbles in a shower of dust, leaving behind a pile of ash that had been his clothes and a dozen half-melted ornaments. 

The golems held their circle, unmoving, as the fire around them raged, causing them no harm, even as it climbed up the steep walls and then retreated, like the tides, back to where Charles was still clutching Erik, enfolding them completely, until at last that, too, was over and there was nothing in the courtyard but dust and seven silent golems.

Charles' head hurt. He clutched the fabric of Erik's robe and let out a sobbing breath and tried to rise at the same time, but his limbs were shaking as though he'd just ran a race beyond his endurance. As through a shroud he recognised the robe he was clutching as Erik's ceremonial robe, the one he'd been assured should burn him to touch, but here it was, bundled in his palm, quite harmless, much like his own wasn't apparently hurting Erik at all, because the whisper ghosting against his ear was of relief and joy, not pain.

"Well done, little bird," someone said softly, just as a whisper of strong, feathered wings scattered the ashes on the ground. "Well done indeed."

The penultimate thing Charles could remember was the urgent need to lay his head down and sleep. The ultimate was the expression in Erik's eyes, just as tired as his own, and the kiss against his lips.

*****

The smell of cinnamon was everywhere. Charles rose from the pillow to discover midday sunlight on his face and a very distressed cat licking his cheek with her rough tongue. 

"Raven," he whispered, reaching out to push her away, but he moved slowly and she leapt away from his hand, landing on all fours beside the bed. "What happened?"

"Nothing unexpected."

Charles sat up straight and found the General smirking at him from across the royal bedroom. Erik was still asleep, laid out in the very same bed Charles was, still wearing the black robe, just as Charles was still clad in gold. 

"Lord Trask—"

"Is finally gone, bless his soul, if that's even an option anymore."

"Did we kill him?"

The general sighed. "Once more, child: he had been dead for years. Heavens only know what kept his spirit clinging to his body so insistently. Don't feel bad – you should feel like you've set him free rather than done him harm. It was a good deed you did, and you should feel good, accordingly."

"I don't feel bad," Charles said, though in fact he did feel a considerable weight settle on his shoulders. It wasn't every day that he was told he was responsible for a man's death, even when the man in question had not been alive in the traditional sense. There was a soul inhabiting that body, whatever it was, and Charles had let the body crumble into dust. 

Some of the devastation must have shown on his face, because the general leaned forward and spoke to him intently. 

"Charles, feel bad if you must, although I would recommend you feel bad about stealing people's pies rather than helping Lord Trask into eternity. Perhaps this would help: Lord Trask had the unfortunate habit of picking magical children of the Upward and feeding them to the flames, in order to maintain his tenuous grip on the mortal plane. More often than not they were the children who could potentially become princes or princess, as I'm sure you've guessed it was their magical abilities he was after. This is a kingdom of law and such things shouldn't be encouraged."

"It seems to me like you've known about this for quite some time," Charles whispered furiously. "Certainly long enough to have keys to the manacles in his dungeon!"

The general awarded him with a raised brow. "Indeed. What of it?"

"Why would you let him continue, if you knew? How many people have you let him kill?"

"Quite the confused statement, that. First of all, the fact I possess the knowledge does in no way imply I possess the capability of altering the situation. Lord Trask, quite unfortunately, was a very capable magician, which should surprise no one, considering he managed to outwit death for so long. My own skills are meagre, at the best of times, and insignificant in comparison.

"Secondly, even if I did raise suspicion, I would be going against much of the court, as his standing is not perhaps higher, but his budget certainly was. This may seem meaningless to you, but one has to learn to navigate the complexities of noble interaction with a set of ledgers."

Even with that in mind, something in Charles boiled when he recalled the events of last night. "You ran! One moment you were there, then Erik came, and lord Trask after him, and all of sudden you were gone, leaving us to be killed."

"I, being a thoroughly non-magical civilian, had bidden a tactical retreat, for which I can't possibly be held accountable. I could have been hurt in the crossfire, so to speak."

"Erik was hurt!"

"Hardly. Drugged, yes, but I know a thing or two about drugs, and the powder on his face is harmless. It would cause heaviness of limbs and a headache, when inhaled, as well as suppress the ability to think coherently for about an hour. At most, inhaling it would cause a period of unconsciousness. He'll be fine once he wakes up."

"You lured him there—Why would you lure him into harm's way?"

This caused the general to stare. "Really? You think I was unjustified in fetching the magician with access to the most powerful known well? Magic is not quite the mindless source of energy, I was sure it wouldn't have let the two of you perish. To be honest I was rather certain it would be him who saved you, not the other way around, but that only serves to prove my point."

"I didn't…" Charles blinked as the memory surfaced and let the currents of it envelop him again. There was a great swirl there, he knew that much; it had come from within, coiling first between him and Erik before it spread, as though something had called it from deep underground to the surface, drawing on its power. It had come at his call, although had not bent to his will, not truly. There was a hint of control in directing it that he could claim as his own influence, but it would have melted like snowflakes, had the current been directed against him. "We did this. I felt the power go through me, I felt…" A hushed memory of things read and heard throughout the years went through him. "I felt the well open." He shook his head. "It is ridiculous, only the prince, the king, should be able to feel that."

He wasn't prepared for the general to begin clapping his hands. "Finally and at long last he understands."

"Understands what?"

"Marriage," the general said, not unkindly, "Is meaningless until there is will in both parties and you haven't been conscious enough to consent during the ceremony, were you? I'm a little surprised you even remember what was going on."

"I didn't faint, or anything of that nature."

"But you did spend three days in an enclosed space, which, even with the presence of windows, couldn't have been comfortable. You can't tell me you were comfortable."

Charles frowned. "What are you saying?"

"I couldn't have you protest," the general said, smiling all the while. "That wouldn't look too good. Fainting also wouldn't but that would have been easier to explain. It is not every day that one gets married to royalty and a certain level of excitement is easy to rationalise."

This was, if anything, the most outrageous piece of information. "You mean you did that to me on purpose?"

"You will find out I do most things on purpose."

"I still don't—"

"I must be tiresome by now," the general said, getting off his chair. Charles sunk against the headboard, seeking Erik's hand amidst the sheets when the General leaned over the bed, pulled the covers aside and grasped the silver hoop he had placed on Charles' ankle the previous day. "Rest. Today there should be no interruptions, you have my word. Erik will sleep for a few more hours; the sleeping powder will take some time to run its course. There will be no guards posted at the door. The quickest way to the main gates is to take the stairs immediately to the right of the door and the follow the gallery north. The guards stationed there hardly ever stop people from leaving the palace grounds, and there is enough plain clothes in the closet to disguise you."

An easy escape! "Why are you telling me this?" Charles asked, feeling his mouth go dry at the hint that freedom was at his fingertips.

"With Lord Trask gone, you are safe here, and no one should be held against their will. With that said, however, I do hope you reconsider staying – Erik will be so disappointed to find you gone. Devastated, even."

The general bowed courteously and left, closing the doors behind him, leaving Charles in utter confusion. 

He had said there would be no guards and no one to track his movements. He took the silver hoop with him, so that he could no longer be tracked. Charles looked down at his hands and swallowed. He could leave. He could shed the phoenix robe and walk away, like nothing had happened, and he wouldn't ever be found. 

Raven looked up at him from the floor, where she'd been grooming herself, next to Azazel's sleeping form. Her golden eyes shone in the midday sun, completely at odds with her dark coat. She let out a loud meow and approached, hopping onto the bed and nudging Charles' palm, moving carefully, so that no whisker would touch the robe. 

Strange, how Raven had no problem at all finding her way in and out of the palace, Charles thought, shedding the accursed cloth and gathering the cat into his arms. She twisted and turned and nuzzled at his cheek, going as far as nibbling on his earlobes, before settling to watch.

"You want me to go, don't you?" he asked, kissing her fuzzy head. "You want me to go back to the Upward and never poke my nose out where they could find me again."

Raven let out a well-meaning meow, which, Charles was certain, was meant to remind him of the kidnapping, of the open air, and the fact that he very nearly died, many times over.

"I do love the food here," he said in reply to the very reasonable reminder.

A purr let him know it was a love Raven shared.

Erik muttered something into the pillow and turned onto his side. There were smudges of dust on his face and his hair, likely the same dust that was keeping him asleep, and his face was relaxed entirely, and bereft of all worries. Charles reached out and tentatively laid a hand on Erik's shoulder, where the embroidery most resembled dragon scales. 

He felt nothing, at least nothing where burning pain was concerned. He felt the softness of silk, the protruding embroidery, the roughness of golden threads and the edges of the design. The fabric was warm, but it was the warmth of the human flesh it contained, not a searing cold fire.

He remembered, with equal clarity, Erik's hands on his back as they held each other on the pyre.

"Charles?" Very slowly Erik shook the sleep out of his mind and moved his hand, until he could run his fingers over the golden silk bundled around Charles' waist. "I thought I didn't dream that."

Raven hissed and licked Charles' cheek, then slithered out of his arms to sniffle at Erik's hair and nip at the shell of his ear, which was as clear a blessing as he was ever going to get.

"Hello to you too," Erik said, struggling to get himself into a sitting position. Raven gave him a look, then leapt off the bed and padded to the balcony. One leap over the railing and she was gone, presumably to hunt down a fat, royal pigeon for her late breakfast. Erik looked after her a little wistfully, but his gaze quickly returned to Charles, and he reached out to brush the pads of his fingers against his cheek.

Charles was struck by how the movement triggered a wave of something primal and intangible in his own head, not unlike what he felt whenever he called on the silence to help him escape a crowded market, only stronger and far more focussed. That something resonated in the stones and most of all in Erik, until their heartbeats were speeding up into a parallel, racing rhythm.

There were no guards at the door, he remembered, and Erik was watching him with a hopeful, curious gaze, tangled in the very same magic which had come to their aid during the night. They were tangled in it together now, entirely, locked within its swirls. There were no guards at the door, but, in all honesty, what guard could possibly stand between him and the door, when he had the immeasurable well of magic within his reach? Charles let their fingers tangle together and leaned forward for a kiss, which, to his profound relief, was a thoroughly common experience, a touch of wet lips, parting invitingly, hands seeking the warmth of skin; nothing of the swirling magical well in which they very nearly drowned previously, and had survived together, holding on to each other and nothing else.

"Will you stay?" Erik asked breathlessly, even though he knew, he must have known, that there was no way Charles could leave him now, not without severing something vital to his own survival.

"I will," Charles said, equally aroused and elated to have Erik grin. Together they did away with the laces which held his robe together, seeking the touch of skin. They kissed over and over again, drunk on the incredible high one achieves upon jousting death and coming away victorious, and that alone would have been enough to tip them onto the soft mattress, legs tangled, hair in disarray. 

"Will you stay with me?" Erik asked again, hours later, when they lay in the orange-tinted sunlight at the end of the day, sharing the remains of a meal composed mostly of fruit and cooked vegetables. "Will you be happy here?"

And although he was quite conscious he was given very little choice in the matter, than his fate had been decided the moment he first laid eyes on Erik mere days before and felt the jolt of magic that prompted him to help him out, Charles could do no more than to say, entirely honestly, "Yes. We will be."

THE END


End file.
